Like Clockwork
by PharaonicWolf
Summary: FMAxYGOxNaruto. One hundred years after the Fullmetal Alchemist's career, Resembool has become a tourist trap for those captivated by the Elrics. But the lure of the Philosopher's Stone attracts unsavory characters... DISCONTINUED
1. Assumptions Overturned

**A/N**: Ha ha, wow. I'm attempting to write a crossover fic. It appears my friends' suspicions about my sanity were true.

**Anime**: Yu-Gi-Oh, Naruto, Fullmetal Alchemist

**Rated**: T for language, violence, possibility of mild sexual situations and maybe shonen-ai (none of which really applies to this chapter).

**Disclaimer: **The likelihood of me owning Yu-Gi-Oh, Naruto, and Fullmetal Alchemist is roughly the same as the likelihood of the French president suddenly turning into a pink elephant that carries a polka-dotted umbrella and speaks fluent Arabic.

**Warning**: This story contains **major** spoilers for Naruto and Yu-Gi-Oh. If you have never heard of Akatsuki or don't know who Kisara is, I suggest you don't read unless spoilers don't bother you. However, you don't need to have expert knowledge of all three series in order to follow the story.

It's important to note that I am strictly a **mangaverse **writer; this is especially important in the case of Fullmetal Alchemist, where the manga and the anime diverge into two different storylines about halfway through. I do, however, use "Ishballan" instead of "Ishvarlan" (because I think it sounds better) and "Fuhrer" instead of "President" (because I think Fuhrer is a more appropriate title for the leader of a military dictatorship). If you're unsure about the differences, I suggest you google "Fullmetal Alchemist manga." I've found some good comparisons that way.

That aside, I am not saying that my knowledge of any of the above series is perfect. If you find something that you think is a mistake, please let me know.

Ooh, I forgot to mention: Miho is an actual Yu-Gi-Oh character. She appears in the last chapter of the first volume of the manga. Also, as Amestris has a distinctly European flavor, all characters that come from there have names in the Western order (i.e., Seto Kaiba instead of Kaiba Seto). Characters from the shinobi villages will still have Asian-style name orders (last name first).

Anyway, enjoy, and please review! Constructive criticism makes my day.

Chapter One: Assumptions Overturned

The Crescent Moon Inn was two miles off the highway, half a mile outside Resembool, and about as close to Nowhere as you could get in an age of high-speed Internet connections and cell phones the size of credit cards. The building used to be a house and was nearly a hundred years old, which meant it would have been brand new around the time the Elric brothers left the small town. Although its current owners worked hard to keep up with the times – all the rooms had wireless Internet service – the actual structure was starting to show its age. The porch creaked beneath the newcomer's heavy boots, and paint flakes came off on his gloves when he pushed open the door.

One thing the residents of Resembool could count on was that the Crescent Moon was stable. By that they meant that nothing unexpected ever happened. There was always a handful of tourists eager to visit the birthplace of the controversial Elric brothers, but no one ever came from far-away, exotic places like the Wind Country an hour's train ride to the north. The tourists were always predictable, ordinary people, more sight-seers than alchemy researchers. But aside from the city-bred vacationers, the Crescent Moon also attracted its share of boozehounds who were looking for an escape from the policemen who patrolled the town proper. Occasionally the proprietor would throw out one or two of the boozers, but the townspeople expected that. Nothing exciting ever happened down at the Crescent Moon, oh no. But if you had told that to the boy who stood in the doorway wiping paint flakes off his otherwise immaculate gloves, he wouldn't have believed you. He had walked into the middle of a drunken fistfight.

"Take it back!"

"I ain't takin' back a word of it! It's the truth an' you know it."

Both men were on their feet, hands latched onto each other's sweaty collars. One was bleeding from a small cut on his cheek, where the other had thrown a beer bottle at him moments before. The bottle was now in pieces on the floor, old-fashioned ale darkening the floorboards like an oil slick. The teenage girl behind the bar had frozen with a clean glass and a drying rag in her hands.

The bleeding man threw a wobbly right hook at his adversary's nose, but thanks to the three beers in his system, the punch landed closer to his rival's shoulder. The other man was slim but strong, and not quite as drunk as his opponent. In seconds he had the man pinned against the bar and began jabbing at his beer-swollen gut. The counter shook with their struggle, and the teenage bartender shrieked as some wine glasses fell from a high shelf, narrowly missing her and shattering against the antiquated soda machine.

That was when the newcomer sprang forward, clapped his hands once, and slammed his palms down on the hardwood floor. His long overcoat swirled around him, and a flash of light briefly illuminated the room, dying down as quickly as it had come to reveal that both men had vanished. Their groans and irritated yelps still hung in the air, as if they were echoing up from whatever abyss the drunken pair had been banished to.

The newcomer straightened, crossed to the bar, and peered over the counter.

"Are you all right, miss?"

The girl, who had instinctively ducked, looked up and tried to respond but found herself rendered mute. The sunlight from the open door was at the back of the person leaning over her, casting his face in shadow; the spots swimming before her eyes from the sudden flash of light weren't helping either. Blinking furiously, she realized that he was holding a hand out to help her up. With his support, she regained her footing, stumbled around the bar, and sank onto the closest bench.

"What did you – How did – You can do _alchemy_!"

"A little," he admitted, scuffing a foot across the worn floor. "I'm a student." He reached towards her hesitantly, as if he wanted to take her hand and beg for forgiveness. "I can get them out, if you'd like, and fix the floor. Or you could call the police and let them deal with it."

For a split second the girl didn't understand, until she looked down and realized that the groans and yelps really were echoing up from the abyss; the newcomer had opened a pit in the floor, and the two men had fallen into it. They were collapsed in a drunken heap on top of each other, dazed but still coherent enough to shoot obscenities at each other and the pit. A mixture of relief and disbelief washed over the young bartender, and she turned to face the alchemist.

From his voice she had guessed that he was roughly her age, but his hair had already gone white, almost silver. It had been unevenly cropped to near shoulder-length and hung untidily in his face, dropping shadows like a curtain over his eyes. His youthful features revealed her guess to be correct despite his misleading hair color, and at the moment those features were twisted into an odd expression, a strange mixture of amusement and apology.

That look turned out to be the last straw. Suddenly the sheer absurdity of the situation broke over the bartender, and she started to giggle uncontrollably, pressing her apron over her face to hide the tears of mirth that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

All hints of apology vanished from the young alchemist's face, and he shot a small, pleased smile at the pit.

"So… shall I get them out?"

"What? Oh, yes. The police – I'm sorry." The girl couldn't hold back her laughter long enough to finish the sentence. She took a few deep breaths and tried to force her expression into a state of composure.

"The police don't need to get involved. We get beer-suckers like them every few days or so. Just… just kick them out."

She hiccupped twice and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing a thin trail of mascara across the side of her face.

The alchemist stood, clapped his hands again, and pressed his palms to the floorboards without the urgency of before. The planks re-formed themselves, lifting the two dazed men back to ground level. They scrambled to their feet with an agility that was surprising, considering how drunk they were.

"What the hell…?" the man with a cut on his face slurred. "Where in blazes – blast – bloody hell, where did that hole come from?"

The other man snickered. "You're so fat… so… so heavy – _you_ busted that hole in the floor!" He threw his head back and howled with laughter, slapping his leg with an unsteady hand.

"What! You… You… Bloody hell… Bastard!"

Suddenly both of them were at it again, fists swinging jerkily. The alchemist ducked an ill-aimed punch, clapped for the third time, and planted his hands on either side of the puddle of beer. Swearing, both men slipped and fell, this time too dazed to return to their feet. The puddle had grown to twice the size of before, conveniently spreading underfoot until the floor was too slick to stand on.

Together the bartender and the alchemist dragged the two men out to the front porch, where they rolled the drunkards down the steps and left them to regain their wits on the sidewalk. The bartender fetched a bucket and mop to wipe up the spilled alcohol.

"So…" the alchemist began hesitantly, plucking bits of broken glass from the floorboards, "do you always run a restaurant by yourself?"

The bartender flushed a little and concentrated on wringing out the mop.

"My father's usually here with me, but he had to go pick up an order at the grocery store. He and I – oh!"

She straightened up, leaned the mop against a bar stool, and stuck out a hand.

"I'm sorry, I didn't bother to introduce myself. My name's Miho Nosaka."

The alchemist ducked beneath her extended arm, repaired the beer bottle with a quick alchemic reaction, shoved the bottle into her outstretched hand, and retreated to a table.

"Nice to meet you, Miho."

Miho looked from him to the bottle in her hand and back again. He had assumed a cross-legged position on the long bench, back resting against the edge of the table, and was inspecting the palms of his gloves as if something were written there. His skinny frame was draped in a long, crimson overcoat with a pair of white stripes running along the hems. The outfit underneath was mostly covered by the coat but seemed to consist of thick-soled boots and a lot of black leather. He rested his elbows on the table behind him and met her gaze.

"I'd like to rent a room, please."

Miho realized that she had been staring and snapped back into businesswoman mode. Slipping behind the counter, she tossed the beer bottle in the trash and opened a thick ledger, which she propped against the coffee machine.

"For how long?"

He chewed on his lower lip, dark eyes darting across the floor. "Erm… three days should do it."

"What shall I put your name as?"

"Ryou Bakura."

For a long moment the restaurant was silent except for the scribbling of Miho's ballpoint pen. A thin shower of dust fell from the ceiling as someone walked by on the floor above.

Miho triple-checked her addition and, satisfied, opened her mouth to give him the price, but the sentence died before it had even begun, drowned out by a door swinging open next to the soda machine. A thin, balding man in a business suit with worn patches on the elbows entered the space behind the counter, laden down with grocery bags.

"Daddy!" Miho dropped the pen and flitted around her father like a moth around a light. "Let me help you with those."

"No, sweetheart, I'm all right."

Her father gave her a gentle but tired smile that accentuated the lines around his mouth and eyes. He dumped the bags on the counter and opened a small refrigerator, shifting a few boxes inside to make room for more.

"Anything happen while I was gone? The smoothie machine didn't start leaking again, did it? I called Mark about that, and he said he'd come by to take a look at it."

"We had two customers start a fight. Watch out, Daddy; two of the wineglasses broke."

The alchemist jumped up and perched on his knees on a barstool, reaching over the counter for the shattered glass.

"Give it here. I can fix it for you."

Mr. Nosaka, who had turned around to stare incredulously at his daughter, glanced at Ryou and did a double take. His eyebrows shot up towards his receding hairline, and his mouth hung open a little, tongue working to form the appropriate words. Ryou shrank back slightly, sinking lower on the stool's padded seat.

"It's okay, Daddy. No one got hurt. They'd had a little too much to drink, that's all; I think they brought more beer from home to get around the two-drink limit. Ryou got rid of them." Miho made a vague gesture in Ryou's direction, shooting a worried look first at him and then at her father.

Mr. Nosaka visibly relaxed. "Oh, all right then." The smile reappeared, still tired-looking but sincerely grateful. Like his daughter, he stuck out a hand for Ryou to shake.

"Thank you… was it Ryou?"

Ryou bobbed his head; his expression was still nervous, and he didn't accept the man's proffered hand. "Ryou Bakura."

Miho bustled around her father, sweeping up the bits of glass with a broom and an old metal dustpan. A few locks of brown hair had escaped from her ponytail, and she paused every few seconds to brush them out of her face before finally setting down the dustpan and re-doing the ponytail, unknotting the yellow ribbon that secured it. Ryou leaned so far over the countertop that he was practically lying on top of it, reaching for the pan full of broken glass.

"Please, I can fix them."

Mr. Nosaka laid a hand on the boy's arm. "It's all right. You've done enough already."

"No, Daddy, he really can fix them." Miho lifted the dustpan up to Ryou's questing hands. "Watch what he does."

Ryou arranged the bits of glass along the countertop, clapped his hands, and held his palms directly above the scattered shards; light flickered briefly, and the wineglasses repaired themselves, sparkling in the muted glow from the overhead lights.

Mr. Nosaka pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and picked up first one glass, then the other, running his fingers all over their smooth surfaces as if he didn't trust his vision.

"That's incredible." He shook his head in wonder, muttering jumbled words of praise. "Just… incredible. Amazing. Where did you learn alchemy, son?"

Ryou gave them a thin, enigmatic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Miho thought she detected a speck of bitterness in his tone as he replied, "Well… I've had several teachers. I travel quite a bit."

Both Nosakas stared at him for a moment, silently imploring him to continue, but he returned to scrutinizing his gloves in a manner that effectively closed the conversation.

Mr. Nosaka opened the kitchen door and stepped out, shaking his head one more time. "Simply amazing."

"Mmmm-hmmm," a new voice drawled from the front of the room. "Very impressive and all, but while you're sitting around chatting about beginner's alchemy, the other customers are going without service."

The words had an edge to them, the result of an accent Miho couldn't place. They had come from a young man who was lounging in a rickety wooden chair next to the open door, feet propped up on the closest table and arms folded across his chest. A patched, torn, purple cloak fell off his shoulders, fastened at his collarbones by a round pin engraved with an odd, hourglass-like symbol. The rest of his clothes were in a similar state of disrepair, but the gold bands that climbed his wrists and neck were polished; they caught the light when he shifted his position, forcing Miho to look away.

Ryou slid forward on his stool, pressing his chest against the edge of the counter. Beneath the tight buckles of his leather jacket and the cotton shirt underneath that, a little shiver of pain ran through his torso, and the cold metal of his pendant grew warm against his skin. The stranger reeked of something Ryou had only felt once before – it was a smell, but it wasn't; it was a vibration in the air, but it wasn't. On some level, imperceptible to everything except the golden tines twitching against his chest, the other boy stood out like a brush fire on a darkened plain. Even if he hadn't heard the footsteps striding heavily across the floorboards behind him, Ryou would have known that the stranger was approaching the bar.

The strange boy shot the pale-haired alchemist a cursory glance and leaned on the counter, coming face-to-face with Miho.

"Seriously, what does a weary traveler have to do to get service around here?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Miho stammered. Her fingers fumbled for a glass. "Could I get you something to drink?"

"Ice water. Some for him, too." The boy jerked his head at a tall, broad-shouldered man who had just come in from the porch, lugging a heavy suitcase under each arm.

Miho raced over to the fridge and jammed both glasses into the dispenser, one under the ice chute and the other under water. The tall man, who had an angular, tattooed face half-hidden by the hood of a loose cloak, didn't frighten her nearly half as much as the boy did. There was something about the boy's eyes that was unsettling; they were an unnatural color, an odd lavender hue that seemed tainted by something darker. Something dangerous.

The strange boy was so close to Ryou that their shoulders were practically touching. At this proximity, the sensation Ryou was receiving from his pendant was so strong that his breath caught in his chest. Swallowing hard against the nausea clawing up his throat, he slid to the next bar stool and released a pent-up sigh as the dizzying vibes ebbed.

His movement and erratic breathing attracted the strange boy's attention. Flicking untidy, khaki-colored hair out of his face, he turned his disconcerting gaze on Ryou. For a moment his lavender eyes met Ryou's deep brown ones, but they didn't rest in one place for long, taking in Ryou's pale skin, white hair, and crimson cloak. Ryou similarly studied him, noting the metallic plates that guarded the backs of his hands and the bulging pockets of his leather vest. The strange boy had the kind of exotic looks that Ryou felt sure the girls back home would have loved; he had the dark skin of an Ishbalan, but not the red eyes. Kohl lay thick on his eyelids and snaked along his cheekbones, tapering to a fine point halfway across his cheeks. As the two boys observed each other, the dark-skinned boy's thin lips slowly curved into a wicked smirk.

"You're lucky that girl and her father don't know more about alchemy." His voice had dropped in volume, but Ryou had no trouble hearing it even over the racket of the ice dispenser. "You'd cause quite a stir around here if the locals found out you don't need transmutation circles."

Ryou's nerves had been rattled enough without an observation like that, especially since the stranger's sly grin widened when he saw the look of horror that spread across the young alchemist's face. In a panic, Ryou jumped up from his stool. His elbow knocked one of the newly repaired wineglasses to the floor, shattering it again. Both boys turned towards Miho; she was rummaging through a cupboard at the far end of the bar and apparently hadn't heard the crash. The strange boy winked at Ryou, pushed away from the counter, and knelt on the floor.

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret, ghost-boy."

Eyes never leaving Ryou's face, he clapped his hands once and almost lazily laid his palms on the floorboards to either side of the shards of glass. Jagged flickers of light danced between his hands; Ryou blinked, and the wineglass was whole again. The strange boy straightened and handed the glass to him.

"Try not to break it again, will you?" He smirked again, flashing Ryou a glimpse of even white teeth. His expression quickly slid into a pout as he leaned back on the counter. "Will you hurry up?"

Miho dashed over, almost tripping on the broom in her hurry. She plunked two large glasses of ice water – complete with bendy straws – on the countertop, pulled out her ledger, and flipped it open to a blank page.

"Will you be staying with us tonight? You and the… er… other gentleman back there?"

The boy glanced over his shoulder at the tall, cloaked man, who had dumped the suitcases in a booth and was holding a newspaper upside down. Turning back to Miho, he sighed with the mock-exhausted air of someone who blows mild inconveniences into dire sufferings.

"Yes, him too."

"So you'll want Room Two. It's the only room left with… two… single… beds…" Her voice trailed off, and she rapidly flipped through the first few pages of the ledger. "Ryou…" She looked up at him and gnawed on her lower lip for a moment before speaking again. "We're… we're booked up. Would it be all right if you took the attic room? I mean, there's nothing wrong with it, of course. It's got air conditioning and all the other features. It's just… a little hard to get to."

Ryou shrugged. "Well, I… As long as it's cheap." He managed a small smile for Miho's benefit and was gratified to see her shoulders relax.

"Okay. Well, then everything's all set. What shall I put your name as, sir?"

The stranger bowed his head to inspect his hand guards and pretended he hadn't heard her, though Ryou saw his eyes flick in her direction twice. He looked up right as Miho opened her mouth to ask the question again.

"What, were you talking to me?"

Miho tilted her head, frowning slightly. "…Yes."

The boy stared at her for a moment longer, mouth open a little, then ducked his head again and scratched a fingernail along the gold bands on his wrist. "Put my name down as Namu."

"Namu what?"

"Just Namu." He rested his chin on his hand and scanned the menu above the bar. "And I'll have two orders of whatever can be cooked the fastest."

* * *

Room Two was at the end of the hallway closest to the stairs, across from a storage room. When Miho opened the door, both light bulbs simultaneously fizzled out.

"Sorry about that." She shot her guests an apologetic grin and slipped under the tall man's arm, fumbling through her pockets until she found the storage room key.

The tall man lugged the suitcases into the room while Namu made himself comfortable on one of the single beds, not bothering to kick off his sneakers. He watched Miho scramble back and forth across the hallway, bringing in light bulbs and a stepladder, taking the stepladder back once she had changed the bulb in the ceiling light, discovering that the other bulb wasn't the right wattage and returning it to storage. Once she had found the correct bulb, she insisted on checking the lights by flicking them on and off several times, much to Namu's displeasure. Finally the tall man placed a gentle but firm hand on Miho's back and steered her out of the room.

"We'll be all right, miss. You should go; don't you have other customers waiting?"

His voice was deep and could easily have been intimidating, but it was laced with a gentleness that his teenage partner's tone lacked. Miho pointed out a card detailing the numbers to call for room service and then finally left. Namu let his head drop back onto the threadbare comforter, rolling his eyes up to stare at the ceiling.

"Close the door, will you, Rishid?"

But the door swung shut before the tall man could reach it, pushed by a dark-skinned hand protruding from the loose sleeve of flowing, cream-colored robes.

Namu bolted to his feet. "Who the hell are you?"

The man fixed Namu with a piercing gaze, his kohl-ringed eyes and narrow face completely emotionless. He made no attempt to move further into the room, choosing to remain where the lamplight caught the golden ankh around his neck and deepened the shadows cast over his face by his turban.

"I asked who the hell you are."

"That is not important." The man's voice was oddly flat despite it being more deeply accented than Namu's or Rishid's. "I am merely a messenger, bearing news for the weary traveler from the Wind Country. Shall I call you Namu?" Here he paused, eyes sweeping meaningfully over the boy's blond hair. "Or would you prefer Malik Ishtar?"

"Get out." Malik's hand strayed to something beneath his cloak. "And tell the rest of those damned Tombkeepers that not even the Wind Country's entire shinobi army can bring me back! I'd sooner be speared by a thousand kunai knives than rot in that hellhole, serving a king who died three thousand years ago!"

The man's impassive pale eyes met Malik's incensed lavender ones. When he spoke, it was in no more than a whisper, but Malik heard every word as clearly as if it had been shouted into his ear.

"There are rumors in the Wind Country of a new king, set to officially take the throne in thirty days. Few people have seen him. But the ones who have say that he has strange eyes like you do, that his appearance brings to mind the pharaohs of legend."

Malik's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

"They say that he wears a golden pendant around his neck. A pendant…" He paused again and lowered his head, though his eyes never left Malik's. "…that bears the Eye of Horus."

Malik yanked a golden scepter from his belt and thrust it towards the turbaned man, feeling the metal heat up in response to his call for its power. It was a skill he had taught himself; the sheer force of his will, coupled with the magic his clan commanded, would override the man's mental defenses and leave him in a state of total surrender. Behind him, Rishid lifted a hand as if to stop his young companion.

"Master Malik, you mustn't…"

Malik was keenly aware of the blood racing through his veins. His heartbeat had sped up, and his vision was starting to blur. For the briefest instant, he saw himself through the other man's eyes, standing mere feet away with arms and legs tensed, but then something hit him like a high-speed train and sent his mental self reeling. Of course the man would know how to defend himself from an assault on his free will; he was one of the Tombkeepers, after all. Malik gathered his senses, imagining himself as a cobra coiled and ready to strike, and lashed out again with every ounce of mental strength he possessed. This time the man didn't raise his defenses fast enough, and Malik shoved his way through.

Rishid saw his master's expression of triumph quickly twist into one of astonishment, then pain. He stepped forward, caught Malik as he fell backwards, and guided him to the bed.

Clinging to Rishid's arm, Malik sat down heavily on the end of the mattress. The golden scepter almost slipped from his hands as he met the eyes of the turbaned man and thought he detected a hint of a smile playing across the man's face.

"I am not to be taken lightly, Rod-keeper. Neither is the storm brewing on the horizon. The winds are swift; it will not be long before foul weather catches up to you."

Malik lowered his gaze and did not respond. Rishid watched him, brow furrowed in concern. The turbaned man allowed the smile to grace his lips without restraint, and his eyes flashed a hint of bitter amusement.

"The boy in the attic… he brings to mind the legends of old as well, does he not? White hair and a crimson cloak…"

"I don't want anything to do with him!" Malik burst out. "Or your false king!"

The man opened the door but didn't make any motion to leave the room. "I think you do. Why else would you have shown him that you too can perform alchemy without an array? The boy does not know what power he wields. If you could sway him… influence him… it would provide an extra barrier for those who would hunt you down."

"Look, I didn't know he'd be here. I didn't even know the Ring had found a bearer."

Malik met the man's eyes for the first time since their mental struggle, but the teenager almost immediately looked away, scanning the room with a deliberate air, as if he were frightened but forcing himself to keep a calm front. Rishid's concern grew to alarm, and he stood, prepared to move between his master and the man who was distressing him so.

Seeing Rishid's motion, the turbaned man took a backward step into the doorway.

"You cannot run from your destiny, Malik Ishtar."

And then he was gone, closing the door lightly behind him.

Malik rested his elbows on his thighs and pressed his face into his upturned hands.

"Rishid."

"Yes, master Malik?"

"You can see him too, right? The man in the turban?"

"Yes, master."

"Good." Malik lifted his head and stared at the window, though it was obvious from his pensive expression that his mind was anywhere but the view of the street that stretched past the inn. "I… thought maybe… Wouldn't like to find out that I'm crazier than I already am."

"That reminds me, master." Rishid crossed to one of the suitcases and slipped a small, black pouch out of an inner pocket. "You should take your medicine."

Malik absentmindedly accepted the pair of white pills Rishid offered him and swallowed them without water. He continued to stare off into the middle distance, tossing the golden scepter between his hands.

"Rishid, the day my father –"

Rishid waited, but Malik didn't complete the sentence, shaking his head fiercely instead. A few minutes passed in total silence; Rishid, assuming there was no more to be said, stood and turned to begin unpacking the suitcases.

"That man… His mind was so… vast. There was so much there that I couldn't… I had to withdraw. I don't think the Millennium Rod could have found the bottom."

Malik rolled the scepter between his palms, stopping every now and then to uneasily run his thumb across the Eye of Horus carved on the head.

* * *

As soon as Miho opened the storage room door, Ryou could see why she had called the attic room "hard to get to." An obstacle course of cardboard boxes, bed sheets sealed in plastic packaging, and discarded scraps of bubble wrap spread across the uncarpeted floor, like the remnants of a train wreck. Miho grabbed a large broom and began plowing through the mess.

"I'm really sorry, Ryou. No one's stayed in the attic room for a while… I mean, we go up there to clean it sometimes, of course, but we haven't organized the storage room since our last bulk buy of bathroom towels…"

Ryou helped her wrestle a heavy box onto one of the high shelves. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see that she was watching him closely, only looking away for a couple seconds at a time to pick up a box or package.

Once they had cleared a path down the middle of the storage room, Miho leaned the broom against the back wall and began jumping up and down, arms stretched above her head as if she were a toddler reaching for a toy dangled just out of her grasp. Ryou stood back and watched her uncertainly. On the fourth jump she caught hold of a cord hanging from the ceiling and pulled; a panel swung open and a metal staircase unfolded itself with a reluctant screech, extending from a space just above the ceiling to the storage room floor. Miho dusted her hands off on her skirt.

"There you go. The room's right at the top of the stairs. No door up there, but you can lock the storage room door at night for privacy."

Ryou eyed the staircase apprehensively. It was obviously as old as the rest of the inn – so much of the paint had flaked off that bare metal was in the majority – and he had serious doubts about whether or not it would support his weight. He gingerly placed a foot on the lowest step and applied as much pressure as he could; the stairs creaked, but nothing snapped off or collapsed. Praying for the sudden, miraculous appearance of a handrail, he scrambled upwards and hauled himself with both hands onto the stable hardwood floor at the top.

"The restaurant closes at ten o'clock," Miho called from below. "Before then you're welcome to come down if you need anything." She waved and walked out of his line of vision, only to reappear seconds later. "Oh, I forgot. There's no bathroom up there, so you'll need to come down and use the one in the restaurant. I'll leave it unlocked."

He flashed her the thumbs-up sign, which she returned before stepping out of sight for good.

Ryou stood and paced back and forth in the small landing, testing the effects of his heavy boots against the floorboards. Nothing buckled or broke, and it didn't take him long to gain sufficient confidence to stride the length of the room without testing where he was going to step first. The stairwell – if you could call it that – was hidden from the rest of the room by a waist-high divider, which also supported two nightstands and the headboard of a single bed. The wall across from the bed sported a built-in desk covered in dusty travel magazines. Two armchairs swathed in dust covers crouched beneath a floor lamp, surrounding a small table tucked under the wall-mounted TV. Three of the walls bowed inward at chest height to accommodate the slant of the roof. One corner was partitioned off to create a separate room roughly the size of a typical hotel bathroom, and despite Miho's earlier claim, Ryou assumed that was what it was. But upon opening the door, he discovered that it was really a walk-in closet with a handful of clothes hangers dangling forlornly over a small heap of mothballs and a few dead cockroaches.

As he stepped back and made to close the door, a glint caught his eye and stopped him. A frameless full-length mirror had been mounted on the back of the door, and Ryou, who rarely paid attention to his appearance, cracked a rueful smile at what he saw. The heat had made his hair limp, and it clung to his forehead and the sides of his face. His pale skin was accentuated all the more by the dark leather he wore beneath the red cloak; it was little wonder the stranger in the restaurant had called him "ghost-boy."

The recollection of the word "ghost" made Ryou's smile fade. Rubbing idly at a small splotch of dirt on the glass, he let his gaze wander across everything else reflected in the mirror. Nothing seemed to be out of place, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief – which was abruptly cut short when a second person stepped into the reflection, standing just behind Ryou's right shoulder. The young alchemist didn't dare turn around. Hard experience had taught him that it was actually easier to see this person in reflective surfaces, and he wanted to keep an eye on his visitor's every move.

The two of them could have passed as twins; the resemblance was uncanny, down to the identical small tears in the hems of their matching overcoats. A trained eye might notice that the second person's pale hair was a little wilder, his facial features a little sharper, but the real difference lay in their eyes: Ryou's were soft and revealed a gentle nature that the other person entirely lacked, his eyes glinting instead with an eerie spark of crimson. Seeing Ryou's shoulders stiffen, the wraith's thin lips pulled back from his teeth, exposing elongated canines.

"And how does the evening find my host?"

The voice was different from Ryou's too, deeper and raspier. Even when he spoke, his lips never lost the shape of their disconcerting smirk.

"What do you want?" Ryou asked with uncharacteristic coldness.

The other person shrugged and crossed to the bed, moving out of the mirror's range and forcing Ryou to turn and look at him. Moonlight from the window above the stairs passed right through him and fell uninterrupted on the floor. Ryou could see the nightstand through the chest of his ghostly visitor.

The spirit spoke again. "I'm merely checking up on my landlord, that's all." He stretched like a cat, gloved hand passing right through the edge of the bed, and then turned to gaze out the window. "So this town is the origin of those brothers you speak of."

Ryou closed the closet door, took off his coat, and draped it over the back of an armchair, never taking his eyes off the spirit.

"Yes, the Elric brothers."

"The ones who found the Philosopher's Stone."

"No," Ryou corrected. "Well… maybe. No one knows what really happened – except the brothers, of course, but they're dead – "

The spirit snickered. "I suppose that means they didn't know how to use the Stone properly."

"We don't _know_ if they found it."

"The younger one retrieved his body from the Gate."

"…Maybe there's a way to do that with some other type of magic." The spirit hated being challenged, which meant Ryou was treading dangerous ground, but his ghostly counterpart seemed to be in a stable mood – for now.

The spirit shot Ryou a dangerous glare, making the boy cringe, but the angry gleam in his eyes subsided with unusual speed.

"If there were another way, I would have found it by now."

Ryou fidgeted. "There are… there are stories about what happens if you use the Philosopher's Stone…"

"…Yes?"

"…There are… side effects."

"And you think I care? I've already died once, boy. There's nothing that could be worse than what I've seen."

Silence spread over the room like storm clouds rolling in to cover the sky. The boy and the ghost remained perfectly still until Ryou finally couldn't stand it any longer and stepped forward to collapse on the bed, unfastening his leather jacket. The spirit watched him grope for the string around his neck and draw a golden pendant from beneath his undershirt, holding it up to the moonlight like an offering to the gods. True to its name, the pendant was in the shape of a ring, with five tines dangling from the outer edge and a triangular piece carved with the Eye of Horus in the center. In the silver half-light the eye almost seemed to be moving, shifting its gaze from Ryou to the ghost and back again.

"…Spirit?"

"What, host?"

"What about that boy in the restaurant? He could do alchemy without a circle." When the spirit didn't answer, Ryou pressed on. "He had the same… vibe as that man we saw in Central."

"We'll have to keep on eye on him, but we'll have to make sure he doesn't get suspicious." The spirit turned away so Ryou wouldn't catch the smirk that played across his face. "Can't risk any damage to you… either physically or mentally."

Ryou considered asking questions but almost immediately decided against it. Against his better judgment, his eyelids were drooping so low that only a sliver of his brown irises could be seen and the spirit's translucent image was made blurry by his eyelashes. Ryou blinked, and the ghost vanished altogether, though his presence still hung in the room like a faint whiff of cigar smoke.

Several minutes passed before the spirit's hoarse voice floated out of the darkness again.

"Get some sleep, host. You'll need it." His tone left no room for protest. "Tomorrow we will not rest until answers are found."

* * *

The crescent moon on the inn's neon sign flickered, alternately illuminating and throwing into shadow the moths that hovered nearby. It was a poor imitation of the real thing, which sagged low over the roofs of Resembool in the distance. Shadows hung from the porch-roof eaves like cobwebs; along the walls they clustered in bunches so thick that the girl sliding through them didn't bother to use any kind of cloaking jutsu.

She paused before rounding the corner and pressed an ear to the wall, but heard nothing save for the soft buzz of electric current running to the neon sign. All the windows were darkened, and a quick peek showed that the restaurant was deserted. The front door was locked, but a small detail like that had never stopped a shinobi before.

She crept through the restaurant and up the stairs, keeping close to the wall where the worn boards were less likely to creak. The floor in the upstairs hallway was carpeted, softening her steps, and it was the work of mere seconds to pick the lock on the door of Room Two.

Both occupants were sprawled on top of the sheets – the tall, muscular one was in the bed furthest from the door, which worked out nicely; he was a secondary target. The kunoichi positioned herself at the bedside of her primary concern, keeping away from the window so her shadow would not fall across him. The moonlight seeping through the Venetian blinds highlighted the golden bands around his neck and the kohl he had not bothered to wash off, and for a moment she hesitated, eyes lingering on his youthful face and tousled hair. Suddenly one arm twitched, fingers lifting a little as if grasping for an unseen object, and he muttered something indistinct before falling still again. The kunoichi shook herself. Gripping a kunai handle in her teeth, she placed a hand on his wrist, applying the lightest touch possible, ready to restrain his arm if need be. Her free hand snaked over his chest and groped for the golden scepter cradled in the crook of his other arm.

Suddenly his limbs jerked and instinctively curled into the fetal position, trapping the scepter's handle beneath his body. The kunoichi sprang backwards and took up a defensive position near the foot of the bed, but the boy's only action was to mumble something that sounded like a child's whine. She relaxed; he was dreaming. Fingers loosely closed around his wrist, she leaned over him, grasped the head of the scepter, and began to ease it out from beneath him.

Malik was dimly aware of an uncomfortable pressure on his ribcage, as if he were lying on top of something hard; that tended to happen when one slept in one's clothes. It might not have been enough to wake him if the pressure hadn't suddenly changed, completely disappearing from one area and growing stronger in another directly to the side. Whatever he was lying on was steadily moving out from underneath him.

Groggily, he started to reach across his chest to pull the object out and toss it aside, but something clamped down on his wrist, restraining his arm. Jarred awake, Malik automatically lashed out with his three free limbs, knocking away the arm of someone who was leaning over him as if reaching for the Millennium Rod. Immediately the stranger shoved his head back onto the pillow and twisted the captured arm behind his back, but Malik had a grip on the Rod's handle. He swung it upwards, smashing it into his attacker's face. The person released him, and he heard something strike the floor as if the assailant had landed a jump. He shoved himself up into a sitting position, trying to get his feet underneath him, and quickly had to duck two shuriken that slashed past his shoulders. His attacker had sprung out of his reach and assumed a battle pose near the wardrobe, hands bristling with knives and throwing stars. The darkness made it difficult to see details, but the figure was obviously female, and she had what appeared to be a large box slung across her back. Malik mentally reached for the Millennium Rod's power. There was certainly a weapon in that box, and he didn't want to give her the chance to use it.

The kunoichi saw him begin to raise the scepter and, with a flick of her wrist, skimmed two shuriken over his knuckles. The boy swore and rolled sideways off the bed, but did not loosen his grip on the Rod. She waited for him to leap to his feet; as if sensing her intentions, he remained crouched behind the bed, where she couldn't see him. Kunai raised, she edged forward.

Then something tugged at the edge of her thoughts, pulling them away from physical combat. At first she identified it as a nagging feeling of forgetfulness, as if she had neglected something vital to the mission, but as it wormed its way inward, a gasp escaped both her mental and physical selves. Another presence had invaded her mind, scattering coherent thoughts left and right as it plowed through her free will, bringing with it the acrid smell of corruption. Faintly she could hear metallic clatters as her fingers went limp and weapons dropped to the floor. She had been warned about this. She had been warned…

A boy's voice, words lilted with the accent of one bred in the Wind Country, reverberated through the vast empty space where all thoughts of combat and the mission had been.

"Hmm, so I'm now listed as an S-class criminal? Important enough to merit a call to the ninja village, am I?" Grating laughter. "Here's some advice: Never accept a mission unless you know what you're dealing with."

The last thing the kunoichi saw was a sudden explosion of stars that cartwheeled before her eyes, and then everything – the lights, the room, the harsh laughter – was swallowed up by darkness.

Rishid shifted his gaze from the girl prone on the floor to the lamp he had struck her with, still clasped in his large hands.

"Master Malik…?"

Malik came around the bed and rolled the girl onto her side, squinting in the darkness to see if he recognized her face.

"Get some rope."

"We don't have any, master Malik."

"Then get some tape or some bed sheets! Anything we can use to restrain her."

Those who called the Crescent Moon Inn "stable" had been proven very, very wrong.

**Notes, Homages, and General Ramblings:**

1) First off, the title of this section is modified from a segment **Scribbler** often puts at the ends of her stories called "Side-Flings, Homages, and Downright Rip-Offs." If you're a Yu-Gi-Oh, X-Men, Teen Titans, Sonic the Hedgehog, or Xaolin Showdown buff, I suggest you go check out her stuff. She's brilliant.

2) The Crescent Moon Inn is named after the Crescent Moon Motel in a wonderful book called "Faith, Hope, and Chicken Feathers" by Andrea Wyman. (It was one of my favorites as a kid.)

3) _"The younger one retrieved his body from the gate."_

Since the FMA manga hasn't ended, I had to come up with my own conclusion. Apparently Al's body was alive at the Gate in a recent manga chapter that I haven't seen yet, and I'm a sucker for happy endings, so I decided that my dear Al would get his body back. You got a problem with that? XD

**A/N**: Bwahaha, I'm so excited. I've been working hard on this story.

Anyway, I would really appreciate it if you would hit the review button and drop me a little note pointing out anything you think could be improved. The last two scenes in particular were difficult for me to write, and I think they still need a little work. But please **do not** complain about the length of the chapters (as my cousin has been doing) or how long it takes me to update. I'm not going to sacrifice writing quality just so I can post the chapters faster.

Okay, these author's notes are making me sound nitpicky and mean, but I'm not, I promise. I'm really a nice person; don't be afraid to ask me questions or point out things that confuse you.

**Next chapter:** Ryou heads off to the museum, Miho embarrasses herself, and Rishid is stuck with guard duty.

Please check my bio page for updates!


	2. Master and Servant

**A/N: **Sorry about the wait for this chapter, you guys. Hopefully it'll be worth it, though. (The authoress offers a hopeful, apologetic smile.) Reviews make my day!

Chapter Two: Master and Servant

Morning found the inn deceptively quiet. The kunoichi had not stirred during the remainder of the night; after examining her, Malik had left her in Rishid's care while he returned to fitful sleep. Sometime in the early-morning hours a wind had sprung up, and by dawn it was strong enough to stir the porch swing and whip the tall grass that lined the road. Ryou could hear the wind chime's continual ring before he even reached the door to the screened porch.

Said door stuck a little, and Ryou's attempts to noiselessly ease it open failed. He had to settle for rattling the doorknob and hoping the sound wouldn't carry up the hallway to the guest rooms. The door opened with only a slight grating sound, which was drowned out by Ryou losing his balance and toppling forward with a crash that rattled the flowerpots. Wincing, he pushed himself into a sitting position on the worn rug and rubbed a spot on his chest where the pendant had poked him with one of its tines. A gust banged the door shut behind him. So much for not making any noise.

The wind hadn't managed to completely banish the scent of the votive candles, which crouched, partly melted, on a narrow ledge that ran along the three screened sides of the porch. Plastic flowerpots squatted amidst the candles and tall vases, leaves and fern fronds spilling over the edges like shocks of uncombed hair. Ryou brushed his own untidy bangs out of his eyes, stood up, and craned his neck to look over the plants. At this distance the buildings of Resembool seemed no bigger than doll's houses. The sun just barely cleared the rooftops; Ryou held a gloved hand above his eyes and squinted through the glare.

A muffled noise alerted him to a presence at his side. Whirling around, he stared confusedly at the closest plant until something brushed against his leg, shifting his attention downwards. A lanky, orange cat gazed back up at him, tail swishing rhythmically. Its pupils had narrowed to mere slits, and there was something oddly intelligent in its gaze. Ryou half expected it to speak to him, like a witch's cat from a fairy tale.

"Ai? Ai? Here, kitty." Miho poked her head through the doorway. "Aha, there you are." She shuffled across the rug in too-big house slippers and scooped up the cat, shooting Ryou an apologetic glance. "He didn't bother you, did he? We keep him in my room, but sometimes he gets away from me when I open my door in the morning."

"No, it's all right. You can leave him out on the porch. I don't mind."

To Ryou's utter confusion, Miho's face reddened slightly, and she concentrated on tracing a flower on the rug with the toe of her slipper.

"I shouldn't leave him here. The guests come out here sometimes – well, you know that, obviously – and I'm afraid we'll have one that's allergic to cats. It took me a long time to convince Daddy to let me get a cat in the first place. In the end Mother stuck up for me. She said it would help me learn responsibility – and of course you don't need to know all that! I don't even know why… I'm just…" The apologetic smile was back, and her lips were slightly twisted as if something worried her. "I'm sorry. I don't usually talk this much. It's just – you're a good listener."

Ryou gave her one of his practiced courtesy smiles, the kind that usually satisfied people and got them to leave him alone. The cat had grown restless and was trying half-heartedly to wiggle out of Miho's grasp. Miho stared at Ryou a moment longer, face redder than ever, and then abruptly spun on her heel and left, nudging the door closed with her foot. Ryou waited for her footsteps to fade towards the stairwell, but he heard nothing; a second later, the door opened again.

"A-are you going up to the town today? I can give you brochures, you know… Good restaurants, that sort of thing."

"It's all right." Ryou looked at her over his shoulder and smiled again, but this time there was a speck of sincerity behind it. "I'm going to spend all day at the museum, probably."

Miho's face lit up, and she stepped fully into the room.

"I love the museum! It's got one of the biggest collections of material on the Elric brothers – only the State Library in Central has more."

"That's why I'm going."

"Oh, are you studying the Elric brothers for your latest alchemy teacher?"

Ryou's smile faded, and he glanced at his reflection in a nearby vase.

"…I guess you could say that."

For a second he caught a flash of the spirit behind him, cold smirk distorted by the curves of the glass.

* * *

Malik's thumb habitually traced the Eye of Horus on the head of his scepter. The events of the night before had rattled him more than he would've admitted aloud, and he hadn't released his grip on the Rod since awakening that morning. From his position on the bed, he could watch the kunoichi while also keeping an eye on the room's entrance, just in case the turbaned man decided to pay him another visit. Rishid had gone downstairs to buy a newspaper and some breakfast.

The kunoichi had been bound to a chair with torn strips of bed sheets and then unceremoniously shoved into the empty closet. The long, narrow "box" on her back had turned out to be a huge metal fan, easily as wide as Malik was tall – she obviously specialized in wind jutsu. A headband loosely tied around her neck identified her as a shinobi of Sunagakure; Malik had, with his power, already confirmed this. The Rod had also afforded him other, hazier details, and he was preparing for a second mental foray to verify his suspicions.

Eyes lidded and legs crossed like a meditating Buddhist monk, he released a deep breath and felt his consciousness expand until it filled the space between them and brushed against the girl's mind. In her unconscious state, no thoughts floated across to greet him – just an odd crackling like the static between radio stations. Even this sound soon faded as he wormed his way deeper into her subconscious, flipping through her most recent memories as if they were pages in a book.

"Master Malik?"

Malik jumped and immediately withdrew, leaving a small portion of himself behind as a kind of anchor. Rishid was standing between him and the kunoichi, proffering a plate of scrambled eggs. Annoyed by the interruption, Malik snatched the plate away, set it on the nightstand, and leaned sideways so he could peer around Rishid's shoulder.

"Has she come around yet, master Malik?"

"No, not yet."

Malik closed his eyes and revived a more distant memory he had spotted in the girl's mind: a small boy with tousled auburn hair standing over a fresh corpse, rubbing his ringed eyes and whimpering with the quiet desperation of a child frightened by the unknown. There was something intriguing about the boy that Malik couldn't put his finger on. It was almost as if the child was just a front for something else…

"Master Malik?"

Malik's eyes snapped open, and he shot Rishid a particularly acidic glare.

"_What?_"

Rishid lowered his gaze and backed away.

"I was just… Have you learned anything from the girl? We… you should decide what we should do with her."

Malik leaned on the nightstand, resting his chin in his hand. He was silent for such a long time that Rishid thought he had returned to his task of examining the kunoichi's memories, and he moved towards the table to eat his own breakfast.

Almost lazily, Malik said, "She has two brothers who are also ninja. Neither of them accompanied her on this mission."

Rishid followed Malik's gaze to the bound kunoichi. She was barely older than his young master, and her blond hair had been pulled back into two sets of stubby pigtails, one pair high on her head and the other near her neck; that hairstyle should have made her look childish, but somehow it did not. Her clothing wasn't revealing but was tight-fitting enough to show off an attractive figure.

"_He _sent her."

Startled, Rishid jerked his gaze back to Malik and met the boy's disconcerting lavender eyes.

"He… what? _Him_?"

"Yes. As far as I can tell, this girl has never seen Ishizu in her life. That doesn't mean Ishizu's not involved, of course, just that she's not doing all of the legwork." Malik abruptly sat up and pounded a fist on the nightstand, rattling his breakfast plate. "Damn these ninja! I never thought they'd follow us this far. I found a passport on her, but it's obviously fake – I don't know how she got across the border. Damn ignorant soldiers."

"Master Malik, please… Keep your voice down."

Malik shook his head and stood, smoothing his vest and slipping a hand into one of the pockets as if to confirm that its contents were still intact. He slid the Rod through a belt loop and turned to face Rishid.

"I'm going out."

Rishid immediately lumbered to his feet. "I'll come with you."

"No. You need to stay here and keep an eye on her." Malik jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the kunoichi. "I'm going… I'm not sure. Probably up to the town to see if there's any news about a pair of fugitives from the Wind Country. We'll decide what to do with her when I get back."

Both of them stood still for a moment, Rishid watching his master closely and Malik chewing on his lower lip, brow furrowed, indecision clearly written across his features. Then Malik made a brusque gesture in the kunoichi's direction, as if he were waving thoughts of her away like smoke, and left the room at an unusually hasty pace.

* * *

Upon reaching the Resembool Museum, Ryou's first actions were to collapse in a chair and silently thank the gods for the advent of air conditioning, which the bus had lacked. His seat was directly beneath a vent, and he tilted his head back so the frigid air could soothe his sweaty and most likely reddened face.

The lobby was full even at such an early hour, mostly with disheveled college students and summer camp groups waiting to be assigned a tour guide. The youngest crowd was made up of elementary schoolers who had decided to amuse themselves by acting out their version of the Fullmetal Alchemist's military stint. A scrawny, sandy-haired boy in a too-large camp T-shirt had assumed the role of narrator, pitching his voice as low as he could with an expression of utter seriousness on his face.

"Here on the right is the Fullmetal Alchemist, the youngest person ever to pass the State Alchemy Exam!"

With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the smallest child of the bunch, a nervous-looking boy who had looped a bandana emblazoned with a flamel around his neck. Several other boys and girls clustered behind him, cheering and patting him gently on the back.

The announcer-boy cleared his throat and made the sweeping gesture in reverse, drawing attention to the other side of the group.

"And here on the left is the Flame Alchemist, Roy Mustang, the hero of the Ishbalan war!"

A tall, chubby, dark-haired boy grinned and flashed a thumbs-up at his "opponent;" he had drawn crude transmutation circles on his gloves with a permanent marker. The children gathered around the Fullmetal Alchemist boy booed so loudly that the cheers of "Mustang's" supporters were completely drowned out. One of the parent volunteers rushed over, waving her arms emphatically, and said something that Ryou couldn't hear – evidently she had warned them to be quiet, because the children continued in much lower tones. Ryou abandoned his comfortable seat and found a space along the wall within earshot of the small group.

"Okay, I'll be the referee," the blond boy declared. "Everybody ready? Okay…" He brought one hand down with a slashing motion. "_Fight_!"

The Mustang boy rushed forward eagerly, while the Fullmetal boy had to be pushed forward by his supporters. He stood frozen in the center of the ring of children, keeping a wary eye on the Mustang boy, who was almost twice his size. "Mustang" struck a dramatic pose, snapping his fingers repeatedly and making a noise that was supposed to represent flames but sounded more like gunfire.

"Oh, look, I got you!" he crowed, dodging around the Fullmetal boy. "Look, I got you again! Come on, fight back, will you?"

The Fullmetal's supporters had forgotten their parental warning and were cheering at the tops of their lungs.

"Come on, Tommy – I mean, Ed!"

"You can do it! You're the Fullmetal Alchemist!"

"Go! Go! Fight! Come on!"

With a look of mingled terror and determination, the Fullmetal boy clapped his hands and ducked "Mustang's" imaginary flames, pressing the palms of his hands to the floor.

"Look! It's a cannon!" he shouted, pointing off to the right as if everyone could see the effects of his "transmutation." "You better watch out, Mustang."

His supporters broke into wild cheers, which quickly subsided as two more parent volunteers rushed over and herded the children into a single-file line. As they followed the tour guide into the first exhibit, both adults shot Ryou a disapproving glare, as if he had been responsible for the children's behavior. Ryou dropped his gaze to the floor.

With the rowdy children gone, the lobby felt oppressively quiet. The only people left in the ticket line were three girls in identical college sweatshirts, spiral notebooks tucked neatly under their arms. One of the girls gazed absentmindedly out the window while the other two paid for their tickets; her hair was done up in a ponytail tied with a ribbon, similar to Miho's. When Ryou noted this, his thoughts involuntarily drifted to Miho's behavior that morning and the way her cheeks had reddened when he spoke to her. The memory made his face heat up again, and he shifted his weight embarrassedly against the wall. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he heard the spirit snicker.

"Can I help you?"

It took Ryou a minute to realize that the lobby was now deserted and the woman behind the ticket counter was talking to him. She was leaning on the tall desk and regarding him with raised eyebrows, something that quite a few people did when confronted with Ryou's appearance.

Ryou pushed away from the wall and came up to the desk.

"I'd like a pass for the library, please."

The woman chuckled, but not unkindly. "The library's free, hon. You don't need to wait around for me to give you a ticket. Though donations are appreciated." She indicated a clear plastic box on the desktop.

"Uh… sure. I've got some cash here… somewhere…"

Ryou slipped a hand inside his coat and fumbled through his pockets, depositing small handfuls of things on the edge of the desk to get them out of the way of his search.

"That a magic coat or something?" the ticket woman asked, her eyebrows lifting even higher. "How much stuff you got in there?"

Ryou shot her an embarrassed, apologetic glance as he added a yo-yo and a pocket dictionary to the mound of string, pens, dog biscuits, train ticket stubs, and other such miscellaneous articles produced from the folds of his jacket. Eventually he located his wallet and stuffed a ten-dollar bill into the donation box, almost knocking down the "PLEASE DONATE" sign in his haste. The ticket woman watched him cram things back into his pockets for a minute or so before losing interest and pulling up a schedule on the computer.

The yo-yo was the last thing to be put back, and as Ryou shoved it down to the bottom of the pocket, his knuckles tapped something solid and cold, like metal. He at first assumed it to be another yo-yo; it was round and the correct size, though heavy. But when he pulled the mystery object out of his coat, his mouth fell open like the door on a cuckoo clock and a gasp almost escaped through the gap.

Cradled neatly in his palm was a silver pocket watch engraved with a rampant dragon.

* * *

Rishid kept watch at the window with a vigilance that would have impressed any Amestrian soldier, but hunger drove him away from his post around noon. Not daring to leave the kunoichi alone, he ordered lunch at the downstairs restaurant and ate in the room, getting up every few bites to check first the kunoichi and then the window, for any sign of Malik's return. He was about halfway through with his meatloaf when the girl finally stirred.

Hidden (or so he hoped) by the door, Rishid peered in at her with an uneasy eye. The slow, languid flutters of her eyelids indicated that she was still dazed, but she immediately began struggling against her bonds, concentrating on her hands. There the strip of cloth was viciously tight, and even in the dim light Rishid could tell that her fingers were swollen and blue. He slipped into the closet.

"Stop struggling."

The kunoichi redoubled her efforts, defiant gaze fixed on his face. "You won't get anything out of me."

"We know what we need to know."

Her eyes narrowed, and she tossed her head, flicking a stray wisp of blond hair from her face. "Where's the other one?"

"Not here. But he'll be back."

"Soon?"

Rishid gave a curt nod.

The kunoichi stared at him, eyes still hardened suspiciously, and Rishid played along, forcing himself to meet her laser gaze. Beneath her thick eyelashes the irises were an odd shade of teal, swimming with flecks of pride – and an underlying dash of frustration. Rishid had grown familiar with that same expression, in the eyes of another, over the past few years. Lest he be drawn in, he looked away.

The kunoichi's shoulders relaxed by the slightest margin. Letting her chin drop, she allowed herself to feel the full pain from the bump on her head, biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. As she licked it away, Rishid drew nearer and leaned forward slightly.

"Please, don't struggle, and we won't harm you." His voice was lowered, tone far gentler than before.

She allowed herself a sarcastic grin. "That's what they all say."

Rishid stood back and looked her over, eyes traveling along the sheets that bound her limbs. The kunoichi studied his expression; deep wrinkles had appeared in his forehead, and his mouth had drawn into a thin line, as if someone had marked it on his face as part of his tattooed design.

"What are –"

He swooped towards her so suddenly that she jumped, teeth clamping down on her lip and re-opening the wound that had started to clot. Her heartbeat pounded in her temples, and the bump on her head throbbed, sending stars dancing before her eyes again. For a moment she was so disoriented that she didn't realize he had moved behind the chair and was loosening the cloth strip around her wrists.

Wincing as circulation returned to her hands, she recovered in time to see him step abruptly away from her chair, as if he were afraid of being caught. Uncertainty was scrawled across his features, but at the same time he seemed, in a childlike, dazed sort of way, to be pleased with himself. The kunoichi couldn't stop the small quirk that turned up a corner of her mouth.

"You're an odd one," she muttered contemplatively, half to herself. "What's someone like you doing answering to a teenage brat?"

Rishid rolled his broad shoulders absentmindedly, gazing off into a corner. His eyes were misted over, his expression blank. At first the kunoichi thought he wasn't going to answer, and when he did, it was in a soft murmur that seemed strange coming from so sturdy a man.

"I gave my word."

* * *

Ryou was having a difficult time keeping his voice steady. "Spirit?"

Though he couldn't see the ghost, he knew the spirit was watching, studying the pocket watch even as Ryou cupped his other hand around it to hide it from the ticket woman's view.

"Spirit, where did this come from?"

The ghost knew what Ryou was trying to imply, and he chuckled dryly. _I didn't steal it._

Ryou wouldn't have believed him if he hadn't felt a sudden start, a quick wave of surprise, come from the spirit when he had pulled the watch from his coat. The spirit was a practiced liar – not to mention a career thief – but although he could hide his emotions from his host if he was careful, they shared a mental link that would not allow such feelings to be faked.

"Well, if you didn't take it – "

A woman's voice interrupted him. "You still need something, kiddo?"

Ryou jumped; the watch almost slipped out of his hands. The ticket lady was staring at him over her shoulder, hands poised over the keyboard and the end of a pen clamped between her teeth.

A quick prompt from the spirit gave Ryou an excuse. "Umm… where is the library, exactly?"

"Ah!" The woman smacked herself on the forehead and shook her head in self-rebuke. "I didn't tell you that, did I?" She leaned on the desk and pointed up the hallway, past the door that the children's camp group had gone through. "Down there on your left. Last door before the emergency exit."

In the few seconds she had looked away, Ryou had stashed the watch back in his coat, shoving it down to the bottom of the pocket.

"Thank you."

He strode in the indicated direction with her cheery call of, "Open till seven PM, weekends till five" following at his heels. Neither he nor the spirit spoke again until they were safely shut in the privacy of the library, at which point the spirit rose to his own defense.

_Think rationally, host. Why would I have stolen one of the military's alchemic amplifiers when we have that Ring? It's a better amplifier than any antiquated hunk of state-sponsored metal. _

Ryou rested a hand on his chest, tracing the contours of the Ring through the material of his shirt.

"I don't know. But there's no other explanation; I mean, a watch doesn't just – "

_Keep your voice down. There's someone here._

Alarmed, Ryou glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing save for the silent rows of bookshelves, illuminated by narrow windows set high in the far wall.

_Over there._

The spirit drew Ryou's attention to the end of a nearby row, where a boy in a hooded red jacket was gazing towards the door, face angled away from them. His blond hair was styled in an old-fashioned short braid that fell almost to the black flamel embroidered into the back of his coat.

Ryou's mouth instantly went dry. "H-holy… mother of the gods…"

_Someone's gotten very religious all of a sudden, _the spirit muttered derisively. _First you thank the gods for central heating and air…_

Ryou cut him off in a hoarse whisper. "That's _Edward Elric_!"

_Host, the Fullmetal Alchemist is dead. You said so yourself. _

Deaf to the spirit's skepticism, Ryou edged forward as quietly as possible, ducking behind bookshelves and then peeking out again to make sure his hero was still there. The Fullmetal Alchemist didn't move, merely staring off into space as if in deep thought.

Ryou was two rows away from Edward when the spirit felt him start, then look around wildly, quickly focusing on something above the bookshelves on the right.

"Look." Ryou pointed to a small black box mounted on the wall, tracing a path with his finger from it to Fullmetal. "He's a hologram."

From this angle, the spirit could clearly see the edge of a bookshelf through Edward Elric's translucent shoulder. A satisfied smirk twisted the corner of his mouth.

_Back on task then, host. Where can we find material on the Philosopher's Stone? _

* * *

The sun had dipped so low that its rays no longer angled through the library's high windows, and Ryou had had to fetch a lamp from the back of the room to light his corner table, which by now was stacked with dozens of alchemy textbooks, including anything that even briefly mentioned the Elric brothers. Ryou had been taking notes, but the books had yielded little that he didn't already know, especially on the subject of the Philosopher's Stone. He fiercely scrubbed the back of a gloved hand across his eyes, fighting the blurred vision that came with exhaustion.

"It's almost seven, spirit, and if we miss the bus we'll have to walk all the way back to the inn. We can always come back tomorrow… Spirit, please…"

The spirit had grown increasingly irritable as their search progressed – or, more accurately, barely progressed at all – and was in no mood to tolerate his host's pleading.

"Didn't I tell you that we wouldn't rest until we found answers?" he snarled, assuming a wraithlike but visible form in front of the desk. "That girl said this library has one of the largest collections of material on the Elric brothers. If they did find the Philosopher's Stone, surely there's some record of it somewhere, and we're going to find that record no matter how long it takes us!"

"Then maybe you'd better try the State Library in Central," came a new voice not five feet behind them.

Ryou jumped and swiveled his chair around, bashing his knee against the desk; the spirit vanished like a candle flame extinguished by a sudden gust of wind. A new Edward Elric hologram had appeared under the window, one hand tucked casually in his pocket while the other toyed with the chain of his pocket watch.

A quick look around confirmed that there was no one else nearby, and Ryou hesitantly addressed the hologram, feeling a bit foolish. "Did… did you just… speak to me?"

The hologram reassured him with an easy grin. "I don't see anyone else, do you? Even your friend has left us."

"My… friend?" Ryou's eyebrows slanted downward in a frown, then suddenly sprang up into his bangs. "Oh gods. You can see – wait, holograms can't see!"

The easy grin took on a mischievous slant. "Who said anything about holograms?"

What little color there had been in Ryou's face left it.

"You're… gods… you're…"

"Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist." The ghost held out a translucent hand. "Nice to meet you."

Ryou made a hesitant attempt to shake Edward's hand, but his fingers passed right through the ghostly glove.

"So… you really are…"

"Dead, yes."

Ryou shook his head slowly, near paralyzed by the shock.

"I can't believe… I'm actually talking to you… You, the Fullmetal Alchemist. I'm talking to the Fullmetal Alchemist."

Ed chuckled. "Say that as many times as you like."

"I'm talking to the Fullmetal Alchemist. The Fullmetal Alchemist is talking to me. Well, technically his ghost is talking to m –" Ryou cut himself off, a look akin to panic spreading across his face. He met Ed's eyes beseechingly. "I'm not dreaming, am I?"

The young alchemist's anxiety was so sincere that Ed burst out laughing. "No, you're not dreaming."

"A-are you sure? I-I mean, if I were dreaming, I could easily dream about you telling me that I'm not dreaming –"

Ed made an attempt to lay a reassuring hand on the other boy's shoulder. "Hey, don't over-think these things."

Undeterred, Ryou pressed on. "Wait, you were an old man when you died, but now you're my age… so this definitely has to be a dream."

Ed sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Look, no one wants to be old and frail in the afterlife, right? So dead souls appear as they did in their prime."

Apparently satisfied, Ryou fell silent and looked Ed up and down with an expression of awe still lingering in his eyes.

"I can't believe this."

"And neither can I," the spirit cut in suspiciously, once again assuming his translucent form. "How did you manage to leave the afterlife and return to the mortal realm?"

Ed's friendly grin faded, and a slight frown creased his forehead as he faced the other ghost.

"If you explain how _you _managed, I'll tell you how _I _managed," he declared simply.

The spirit did not appear placated, but neither was he eager to volunteer details of his parasitic dependence on Ryou. Crossing his arms, he took up a position beside his host, smoldering eyes never leaving Ed.

"Look," Ed addressed Ryou, seemingly unaffected by the spirit's intense gaze, "against my better judgment, I'm not going to ask why you're looking for the Philosopher's Stone. I should, but… I can't."

"Why?" Ryou asked, shooting a nervous glance at the Ring-spirit.

Ed shook his head. "I only hope that neither of you are planning to use it for selfish purposes."

This time Ryou's sideways glance was less obvious but more nervous. The spirit paid no attention to him, focusing on Ed with an intensity that frightened Ryou – it was as if the spirit were trying to see past the translucent echo of a human and into the soul that powered it.

"Like I said before, if you can't find anything here, I would suggest the State Library in Central," Ed continued in a lower tone. "I'm going to warn you, though – most of the information on the Philosopher's Stone is classified. Only State Alchemists can get in, and they need to show proof of their military status before the door is even opened."

"You mean proof like this?" Ryou excitedly jerked the watch out of its pocket, nearly ripping the fabric, and dangled it by the chain at arm's length, where Ed could get a good look at it.

The Fullmetal Alchemist stared, blinking several times as if he expected this to be some sort of optical illusion. In the artificial lamplight, the carved dragon took on a bright silvery sheen that highlighted the curves of its tail and the tiny indent that marked its eye; it almost appeared to be winking mischievously, taunting the boy and the ghosts with the mystery of its origin.

Ed reached towards it as if he meant to take it in his hands, remembered that he couldn't, and let his arms fall to his sides.

"Where did you get that?"

"I don't know. I found it in my pocket this morning." Ryou's eyes suddenly widened, and he leaned forward eagerly. "Was it yours?"

"Flick it open."

Ryou complied, and immediately Edward shook his head. "No. That's not mine. It's the genuine article, though, far as I can tell. You're sure you have no idea where it came from?"

Ryou inspected the inside of the watch's cover; aside from the logo "Manufactured in Central," there were no clues to its source.

"No idea."

Ed, who had leaned forward to get a closer look, straightened and sighed with the beginnings of a rueful smile coloring his eyes.

"Well, you're off to a better start than my brother and I were." The smile had died before it really began; Ed's ghostly features were now marked by grave concern. "But be careful. You know the law of Equivalent Exchange, right? In order to gain…"

"Something of equal value must be lost," Ryou recited.

Ed nodded. "In the end, you'll have to make a choice. Is what you stand to lose really worth an equal amount to what you stand to gain?"

The silence that followed was broken only by the watch's muffled ticking. Ryou was suddenly painfully aware of his heart beating in his chest and the fact that he was the only one present who experienced such a sensation.

Then the spirit's eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but a sudden tapping from the other end of the library cut him off.

"Hey, you still in here?" a woman's voice called. "I've got to lock things up."

Ryou instinctively shoved the watch out of sight and turned towards the voice. "Um, okay. Just… just give me a minute to put the books back, all right?"

"Don't worry about it. The pages'll put 'em away in the morning."

"Okay." Turning back to the desk, Ryou gathered up the notes he had taken and slipped them into his coat. "Um, hey, Fullmetal, did you say that –"

The spirit interjected. "He's gone, host."

"What?"

Ryou spun his chair around and looked wildly from left to right, but the only translucent form lurking among the bookshelves was that of the spirit, who was gazing meditatively out the window at the stars that were beginning to dot the sky.

* * *

Malik had returned to the inn late in the afternoon, tersely informed Rishid that no news of them had reached the town, and then lapsed into the brooding silence he had occupied for so much of the morning. When told that the kunoichi was awake, he did not immediately react, much to Rishid's distress.

"Master Malik…" he ventured. "We need to decide what is to be done as soon as possible."

Malik merely shrugged and helped himself to another large spoonful of the pasta Rishid had fetched from the downstairs restaurant. Dinner progressed in silence; they were both nearly finished before Malik spoke.

"Her brother – " He shot a furtive glance towards the closet door, leaned forward, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "One of her brothers is the Kazekage."

"The… what?"

"The Kazekage. The leader of the Village Hidden in the Sand."

The blood drained from Rishid's face, giving his dark, tattooed skin a strange mask-like appearance.

"If her brother is a ninja leader… we'll soon have dozens of shinobi after our heads!"

"Actually, I think this could work to our advantage," Malik replied coolly. "As long as we keep on the move, it'll be difficult for them to find us unless she gets a chance to send a message somehow – which shouldn't be too hard to prevent. In the meantime, we can bargain. If the Kazekage values the life of his sister… the two of us might come away with our freedom."

Rishid's brow remained furrowed. "Are you sure that will work?"

Malik pushed his plate aside and rose, eyelids lowered contemptuously over his cold, hardened eyes.

"Need I remind you, Rishid, of the debt you owe my family? Your role is not to question me – it's to do as I say."

Rishid dropped his gaze to the dinner plate and mumbled, "Yes, Master Malik."

The boy turned on his heels and strode to the closet, flinging the door open and assuming a commanding stance before the kunoichi. She met his eyes unflinchingly, mouth even slanting up a bit at the corners.

"My, my. Mister High-And-Mighty sure knows how to put down insubordination."

Malik's face contorted with rage, lips curling back from his teeth in an almost feral way.

"Shut up. You're in no position to be so insolent."

"Oh, really?" The sudden, eager glint in her eye made Malik reach for the Millennium Rod. "I beg to differ."

Malik's brain did not fully register what happened next; he felt a sharp pain in his ribcage as something slammed him back against the bed, and then the kunoichi's face swam into view above him, harshly backlit by the floor lamp. The Millennium Rod flew from his grasp and clattered against the footboard, pointed end cutting a long scratch through the wood. One arm was pinned beneath him, the other held down by the kunoichi, who was straddling him, restraining his legs with hers. Malik's heartbeat pounded painfully through his temples.

Rishid scrambled to his feet and had the Rod in his hands in an instant. The girl was leering up at him with a wicked smirk that made any sympathy he had felt for her instantly drain away.

"I guess I should thank you," she remarked conversationally, as if they were sitting together at the bus stop instead of being locked in a potentially deadly stalemate.

"…What?"

"For loosening my bonds, of course."

Malik's eyes widened, and he struggled so viciously that the kunoichi had to shift her weight to keep him pinned. "_Rishid! _What did you do?"

The ninja pressed her forearm over Malik's throat, applying just enough pressure to make him choke back his next words and cough violently.

"Hand me that scepter."

Rishid stood immobile, fist clenched protectively around the Millennium Rod's shaft. He could feel the energy inside stirring, a halfhearted response to its young bearer's distress, but without physical contact Malik could not use its power. And the ancient magic would never submit to Rishid.

"You – can't – hurt – us," Malik forced out, teeth clenched. "They'll – want – us – alive."

"True." The kunoichi glanced down at him, still with that unpleasant smirk. "But they did make allowances…" She pulled a kunai from a pouch on her thigh and teased Malik's eyelashes with the sharpened tip. "…for certain unavoidable damages, to be incurred during capture."

Blinking furiously, Malik strained away from the knife; Rishid started and nearly dropped the Rod.

"_Hand me the scepter_."

"Rishid –"

The servant's eyes met those of his master, begging silently for forgiveness.

"Rishid, don't – "

But it was too late; Malik felt a slight twinge as the Millennium Rod passed into unfamiliar hands and then a stab of fury as the kunoichi mockingly nudged his jaw with the head of the scepter.

"Keep your chin up, boy. Maybe the daimyo's court will let you off with a life sentence."

**Notes, Homages, and General Ramblings:**

1) _"Ai? Ai? Here, kitty." Miho poked her head through the doorway._

Yes, the cat's name is "Ai," which means "love." Yes, I'm lame. XD

2) _"…a nervous-looking boy who had looped a bandana emblazoned with a flamel around his neck."_

A "flamel" is the serpent-on-a-cross symbol that's on the back of Ed's jacket. It's mentioned several times in this chapter, but… I still want to make sure that's clear.

**A/N: **I now own a FMA pocket watch, and it makes me happy beyond words.

Anyway, I'm not quite as pleased with this chapter as I was with the last one; the scenes with Malik, Rishid, and their ninja assailant probably need even more editing, but I'm seriously ready to move on to Chapter Three. Good, strong critiques are the best medicine.

**Next chapter:** More characters from Naruto and YGO (and possibly FMA) come into play, including a certain king and the number one, hyperactive, knucklehead ninja. Also, we learn more about Ed's mysterious behavior, and Miho embarrasses herself. Again.

Please check my bio page for updates!


	3. Traveling Circus

**A/N:** Wow, this chapter is way, way, way overdue. I really didn't mean to put off editing it for so long. Unfortunately, I probably will have to stop working on this story until winter vacation. College applications are more important than fanfiction, sadly.

MANY thanks go out to **DragonDancer1014**, my incomparable beta, who even went so far as to re-write several paragraphs to show me what she meant. This chapter would be a horrible mess if not for her.

My boyfriend also deserves to be thanked, for letting me bounce ideas off him even though he's not a writer and doesn't understand why I get so excited about this. XD

Chapter Three: Traveling Circus

Ryou had missed the bus, but he ran so fast that he nearly beat the rickety contraption back to the Crescent Moon. The pocket watch, buried in his coat pocket, bounced against his hip with every stride.

Miho was sweeping the back porch when he stumbled up the steps, wheezing and clutching the stitch in his side. She dropped the broom and darted over to him, arms out as if she expected to have to break his fall at any minute.

"Ryou! What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he managed to gasp out. "Nothing. Everything's… looking good, actually." Some small inner part of him winced at how trite and dishonest that was.

Miho let her arms drop. "So why'd you run here so fast, then?" She was doing a poor job of masking her concern with amusement, and Ryou felt the spirit bristle at her intrusion.

"I… need to catch the next train to Central," he hastily informed her. "Something's come up." He made to brush past her and open the door, but she put out an arm and blocked his way.

"Please, won't you at least stay for dinner?" Her face was flushed, as if she were the one who had just run a mile. Ryou felt the color rise in his own cheeks, accompanied by a slight twinge of… regret, maybe?

"I'm sorry, but it's important…"

She bit her lip and dropped her eyes to the floor, but her face quickly lit up again with a smile that seemed almost hopeful. "We've got a book of train timetables. Here – I'll get it."

Ryou followed her through the back door, which opened off of the Nosaka family's kitchen – an impeccably neat room with chessboard-patterned tiles like a fifties diner. The vase on the table brimmedwith what appeared to be fresh daisies, but when Ryou leaned closer, he realized that they were made of silk.

Still, it was rather disappointing to exchange the cleanliness and cheerfulness of the kitchen for the smoke-laden atmosphere of the restaurant. Ignoring the men downing shots at a table in the corner, Miho crawled beneath the bar and rummaged through a cabinet, leaving Ryou standing awkwardly by the cash register. He slipped a hand into the pocket that held the watch and wound the chain around his fingers. What had Edward said? _Is what you stand to lose really worth… _

"Here we go!"

Waving a laminated pamphlet triumphantly, Miho slid backwards out from under the bar and jumped to her feet. Her flailing arm clipped Ryou's chin, and he stumbled into the counter, jerking his hand out of his coat. His fingers were so tangled in the chain that the watch came with them, ripped the pocket, and spilled all of its contents across the floor.

"Oh!" Miho immediately dropped to her hands and knees and began gathering up the articles. "I'm so sorry, Ryou!" Most of what she had picked up clattered to the floor again as she suddenly stood, seized his chin, and tilted his face towards the light. "You're not hurt, are you?"

Ryou pushed her hand away. "I'm fine. Just let me –" He started to crouch beside her, but she nudged him aside.

"No, I'll do it – I spilled it –"

"Miho, let me – "

Their hands both closed over a deck of cards held together by a rubber band. Miho quickly let go, as if his touch were painful, and allowed him to pick it up.

They both straightened. Miho handed him the items one at a time while he tucked them away, distributing them into several different pockets. Ryou saved the cards for last; he undid the rubber band and shuffled through the deck to make sure every piece was intact.

Miho caught a glimpse of an alien-like monster on the front of one card. "What kind of cards are those?"

"Hmm, these?" Ryou handed her the deck. "Magic and Wizards." He moved behind her so he could see over her shoulder and introduced each card as she flipped through them. "Headless Knight. Specter of Nightmare. Those are both Duel Monsters. Door of Darkness – that's a Spell."

Miho turned her face ever so slightly towards his. His voice became deeper when he spoke in hushed tones, and whenever he looked down his eyelashes left shadows on his pale cheeks. The string of lights above the bar cast a soft, favorable glow over his hair, which seemed to float like a cloud around his head.

They had come again to the alien, an armored creature with skin tinged blue as if from lack of oxygen. It was clutching a doll – or half of a doll, more accurately, as the legs and part of its skull were completely gone.

"That's Dark Necrofear." Ryou was almost whispering now. "One of my favorites."

Miho stared at Dark Necrofear's slitted, predatory eyes. "…How do you play?"

Ryou's head snapped up and he stepped back like he had been awoken from a reverie. "…I'm sorry. I really need to catch that train." At the look of disappointment she gave him, he added, "But I'll show you sometime. Next time I'm back in town, okay?" Before she could protest, he had gently taken the cards from her and snapped the rubber band back around them.

Miho sighed, resigned, and retrieved the timetable, which was lying forgotten on the bar. "There… there's a train leaving in fifteen minutes, but I don't think you'll make that one –"

The kitchen door banged open. Mr. Nosaka rushed in and began digging through cupboards, piling unused tablecloths on the counter. "Miho, have you seen my new tie? The one with the little red polka dots?"

"I think it's in the closet in the back bedroom."

He gave her a kiss on the forehead. "Thank you, sweetie. I don't know what my old noggin would do without your young memory."

"What do you need a tie for?" Miho stepped back and looked him up and down. Her father's outfits, though always clean and pressed, were usually worn and outdated – but today he was dressed in a suit so new that the collar was still stiff and the pants had creases in them from the dry cleaner's. His hair was slicked back with something that looked suspiciously like gel.

"My business trip. I think I told you that I'm going to Central for three days to meet with some of our suppliers." As he spoke, Mr. Nosaka opened cabinets until he found a box of granola bars, which he tipped into a plastic bag.

"You're leaving today?" Miho asked, suddenly elated.

"Yeah, today. My train leaves in –" He consulted his watch. "— two hours. If I can make it. I've barely started packing."

He turned to leave, but Miho caught his arm. "Daddy, can I come with you?"

This arrested her father's chain of harried motion. "What?"

"Can I come with you? I've always wanted to visit Central again."

Mr. Nosaka looked pleadingly at Ryou, as if he hoped the boy would put words in his mouth. Ryou, feeling obliged to acknowledge the unspoken request, shrugged nervously.

"Sweetheart, can't this wait until another time? You should stay here with Mama and help her hold down the fort."

"But Daddy, you promised you'd bring me to Central for Aunt Mizumi's birthday, and we never did…"

Ryou turned back to the timetable, no longer able to ignore the spirit's urgent, frustrated desire to leave for Central. Scanning the list, he realized that the next train would be leaving in less than ten minutes, which meant the only other train he could take that evening would be the same train as Mr. Nosaka. The following day was a holiday; no trains would be running at all.

A sharp sigh interrupted his thoughts. "Miho, sweetie, I really don't have time to argue with you. If you want to come that badly, I suppose you can. But you'll have to buy your own ticket, and you'd better get packed right now. We're not staying longer than three days."

"Oh, thank you, Daddy!" Miho flung her arms around her father, but she almost immediately detached herself and raced through the door into the kitchen.

Mr. Nosaka shook his head and gave Ryou a look that was both amused and annoyed. "I don't know what's gotten into her…"

Ryou tacked on one of his courtesy smiles, but Mr. Nosaka had already left the room with his bag of granola bars, not bothering to put the tablecloths back.

Just as Ryou turned to head towards the stairs, Miho appeared back at the kitchen door. "Are you going to pack, Ryou? We need to leave in half an hour."

He was already packed, but he was planning to answer yes anyway until her second statement completely disconcerted him. "Wait, 'we?'"

"Yeah, you're coming to Central, right? We'll be on the same train!"

"…I guess so."

His lukewarm reaction seemed to dampen her enthusiasm. Ryou refused to turn around because he knew that he'd feel sorry if he saw her eager expression fade.Silence fell between them like a curtain signaling the end of a play.

Finally Miho cleared her throat and forced an airy tone into her voice. "Well, I'll see you on the train then…"

"Yeah, I'll see you. Better… go pack." He waited for her footsteps to disappear back into the kitchen before he left the restaurant and climbed the stairs, fingers tangled once again around the pocket watch's chain.

* * *

The Fuhrer of Amestris prided himself on constantly having his wits about him. Since assuming his position four years previous, he had successfully quelled an uprising in the north and steered his country clear of the war that had erupted between the eastern nations. Amestris was recognized as the leading country in the west; its economy was booming, and its military boasted the best-equipped forces in the hemisphere. His political future was secure. In short, the Fuhrer should have been comfortable. He should have been able to relax for a well-earned moment and enjoy the power and prestige of his country. 

But at this particular moment, a single man was making him decidedly uncomfortable.

"Of course I know what happened to Kaiba," the Fuhrer snapped. "It's been all over the news for the past two weeks."

The man sitting opposite the desk helped himself to a second glass of wine, an infuriatingly enigmatic smile stretched across his face. "Then surely you know who's CEO of the Kaiba Corporation now."

The Fuhrer was making a valiant effort to keep his composure from slipping. "I think the man's name is Seto. Make your point, please. I have a diplomatic meeting to attend in twenty minutes."

"Seto _Kaiba_, to be precise. He's the son of the former CEO."

Throwing a purposefully obvious glance at the clock, the Fuhrer stood and began collecting assorted folders and papers that he would need for the upcoming conference. "Well, if he's anything like his father, Kaiba Corp will be in good hands."

His visitor leaned forward and gestured with the wine glass, as if he were inviting the Fuhrer closer to whisper a secret in his ear. "Ah, but that, Mister President, is the point you have asked me to make. 'The apple has fallen far from the tree,' as they say."

The Fuhrer paused his paper-shuffling long enough to meet the other man's eyes – or eye, since long silvery hair veiled the left one. "If he raises the cost of military supplies, it won't be difficult to pass legislation forcing him to lower the price."

That disconcerting grin grew wider; the visitor set his glass on the table and leaned back in his chair, arms folded leisurely across his chest. "You misunderstand me, my dear leader. Seto Kaiba has no intention of making money off of your military – he plans to alter the Kaiba Corporation so heavy arms manufacturing is no longer its foundation."

This time the Fuhrer did not pause – he stopped shuffling papers altogether, stepped around his desk, and stood over the other man with his brow drawn together like a line of thunderheads and his jaw set as firmly as if it had been carved in stone. His voice was a deep, intimidating rumble. "Explain yourself, Crawford."

The silver-haired man's cheerful expression did not crack in the slightest. "Call me Pegasus, my dear President." He drew a single sheet of paper, folded, from an inner pocket of his red suit jacket and presented it to the Fuhrer. "I have – from excellent sources – obtained a copy of a confidential letter sent by Seto Kaiba to the other members of the Kaiba Corporation's board of trustees."

The Fuhrer snatched the letter from Pegasus and scanned it. His sturdy jaw fell open in astonishment, and he read through the page again, more carefully, even holding the holographic stamp up to the light to ensure that it was real. At last he collapsed in a chair next to Pegasus, eyes fixed on the military coat of arms hanging behind his desk.

"This will… this could ruin us! The other arms manufacturers are too small to supply the entire military! It could take them months… no, years to scale up their production lines. And of course, the government will be asked to cover the costs…" He rounded on Pegasus, all thoughts of "keeping up appearances" scattered like leaves before a storm. "This man Seto actually means to transform a military supplier into a _gaming company_!"

Pegasus's smile adopted a grim edge. "And now you see why I have come to you. If Seto Kaiba throws all of his company's resources behind this endeavor, his gaming empire stands a solid chance of rivaling mine. At the moment, Industrial Illusions has a monopoly on the video game market, but the finest computer programmers on the continent are in the employ of the Kaiba Corporation. So, you see, keeping the Kaiba Corporation anchored in the weaponry business is in my best interests as well as yours."

The Fuhrer dropped his gaze back to the letter. "We could buy him off."

Pegasus never laughed outright, but somehow his prim chuckles were even more galling. "Buy off a man with billions of dollars to his name?"

Defeated, the Fuhrer dropped the letter as if it had burned him. "There must be something…"

"Remove Seto Kaiba and install another CEO in his place."

The Fuhrer met Pegasus's one visible eye, brow knitting with growing suspicion. "And how do you propose we do that?"

Pegasus tilted his head and tapped his chin with one finger.

"Well, let's see… We could take him to court on false charges. Of course, we'd have to rig the jury so they would declare him guilty no matter the evidence… And then there's always murder." The Fuhrer flinched, but Pegasus didn't give him the chance to say anything. "Either way, it will obviously involve illegal activities."

The Fuhrer was gripping the arms of his chair so hard that his knuckles were turning white. After a long moment, which Pegasus spent idly swirling a toothpick in his wine glass, Amestris's leader sighed and relaxed his tense shoulders.

"I'll phone my lawyer later so we can come up with some convincing charges –"

"Actually, I was just about to vote for murder," Pegasus piped up. "It would be much quicker."

"And it carries a possible death sentence if we're caught," the Fuhrer snapped.

There was an odd gleam in Pegasus's eye, similar to a gleeful child on Christmas morning. "Oh, I don't think we'll have to worry about getting caught. Not with my new… little friends."

Someone rapped lightly on the door. The Fuhrer jumped, bashed his elbow on the edge of the desk, and swore in a manner very unbecoming of a leader.

"What is it?"

A hesitant voice filtered through the keyhole. "Mister President, your guests… I doubt… Surely it would not be polite to keep them waiting much longer?"

The Fuhrer glanced at the clock and resisted the urge to swear again. "Mr. Crawford, I'm afraid you'll have to leave. I have visitors from the northeastern border."

"Ah, the Wind Country!" Pegasus stood and automatically shook the President's limp hand. "I went there once, a few years back. Ingenious, really, the cities they manage to build out in those deserts…" He cleared his throat. "When shall we discuss this… problem further?"

"I'll have my secretary call you tomorrow morning."

"Do call my personal number, please." Pegasus produced a business card from his jacket, plucked a pen from the Fuhrer's desk, and scribbled a number on the back of the card. The Fuhrer slipped it into his breast pocket as he crossed the room to open the double doors.

* * *

Private Walker was one of the few privates unlucky enough to be trusted by the higher-ups. It did make him more likely to be promoted, he supposed. But being trusted with latrine duty in the bathrooms in the Fuhrer's headquarters… that was the kind of trust he didn't want. 

Sighing heavily, he lugged a bucket of sloshing, soapy water into the white-marbled room and used it to prop the door open. He had decided several weeks ago that the combination of white apron and military uniform was not particularly becoming. Fishing rubber gloves out of the wide pocket of said apron, he turned back to the trolley of cleaning supplies that was parked in the hallway and rooted through the boxes for a spray bottle.

The footsteps were upon him almost before he noticed them. Walker spun around, right hand automatically snapping into a salute, which the Colonel acknowledged with a brief, distracted nod. As Walker watched, the superior officer crossed to the other side of the corridor, opened a door, and spoke to the occupants of the room.

"The Fuhrer will see you now. He has asked me to convey his sincere apologies for your wait."

Someone within the room responded, but Walker didn't catch what was said. The Colonel stepped aside, admitting a long string of unusual people into the hallway: a dark-skinned woman dressed in white and gold, a staid teenage boy in somber attire, an elderly man with a dark complexion and an eye patch, a girl with bubble-gum pink hair, a man whose entire face was covered save for his right eye, and a second teenage boy whose clothes were heavy on leather and the color black.

Private Walker barely felt the gloves slip from his hands. The Fuhrer only allowed audiences with prominent politicians or businessmen or diplomats from foreign countries, but these people looked more like a traveling circus than anything else. The Colonel didn't seem to notice anything amiss. He cut in front of the troupe with his usual authoritative stride, leading them in the direction of the Fuhrer's office.

A small rattling noise jerked Walker's attention back to his immediate surroundings. Leaning on the cleaning-supply cart was a third male teenager, this one wearing a loud orange outfit and a devious smirk. Either Walker had missed him coming out of the room or the boy had materialized out of thin air; in his confused state, Walker was beginning to suspect the latter.

The child's lips curled back further, revealing elongated canine teeth.

"Surprised, mister?"

And then the boy vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving behind a beautiful naked woman with long blond pigtails that fell tantalizingly over her shoulders andpast her hips, covering just the right – or, depending on preferences, just the wrong – areas. Walker could only stare as she fluttered her long eyelashes and blew him a seductive kiss.

When the Colonel passed through the same hallway a few minutes later, he found Walker laid out on the floor, muttering gibberish and smiling a deliriously happy smile.

* * *

The Fuhrer stood as the Daimyo's party entered his office. He had thought little of it when his officer had only brought in one more chair to join the two customarily stationed in front of his desk, but there were six people now crossing his threshold. He had read a little on the culture of the Wind Country in preparation for this visit, so he was unsurprised by the long, white robes and dark skin of the elderly man and young woman. It was the young man – and the three teenagers clustered around him – who captured his attention. The man eerily brought to mind images of the Fuhrer's previous guest; like Pegasus, his hair had gone prematurely gray, and he had only one visible eye – though _this_ man's left eye was covered, not by hair, but by a steel-plated headband that crossed his forehead at an angle. The three teens around him wore matching headbands, and, if the Fuhrer were not mistaken, the design etched into the center of each plate was the insignia of the Fire Nation. 

The trio – mere children, as far as the Fuhrer was concerned – were dressed outrageously: the girl's hair was bright _pink_, the somber boy sported a ridiculous bowl-shaped collar on his dark shirt, and the other boy was clad from head to toe in bright orange with black trim, like some kind of trick-or-treater. At least their one-eyed senior wore an appropriately military jumpsuit and flak vest.

The two dark-skinned diplomats had moved to the chairs but not yet seated themselves. The Fuhrer decided for now to ignore the bodyguards and focus on the elderly gentleman, whom he assumed to be the Daimyo, though he wondered why his officer had arranged for _three_ chairs. "Please, take a seat. I must apologize for the wait." He frowned slightly as the man and the young woman both glanced towards the entryway, as though seeking another's permission. The Fuhrer followed their gazes, and his eyebrows sprang up his forehead, his jaw falling slack in spite of his best efforts to restrain it.

A slender young man stood framed by the ornate doors, shoulders thrown back, feet apart, and hands in pockets. He was nearly a head shorter than the rest of his party, and his hair was spiked wildly as if to compensate. Studded bracelets adorned his arms, and at least three belts were fastened at angles around his hips. The rest of his clothes were dark, dramatic, and tight-fitting, and on a chain around his neck hung a gaudy, pyramid-shaped pendant.

"Akhenaden, Ishizu, please sit," the boy ordered. He had an even, intelligent stare that lent strength to the authoritative timbre of his voice. "Kakashi… I trust you know what to do?"

The gray-haired man nodded and flicked his wrist as if he were casting a fishing line; his three underlings scattered, fanning out across the room to keep all corners covered.

Resting both hands against the pyramid pendant, the Daimyo of the Wind Country tilted his head and gave the Fuhrer a sardonic smile. "Not quite what you were expecting, Mister President?"

* * *

Malik gradually became aware of a throbbing sensation at the base of his skull. It wasn't painful, but it was unpleasant, as if someone were playing music so loudly he could feel the bass vibrations. His eyelids were weighted. It would take more energy than he currently had to open them. 

He was about to slip back into the blackness he had come from when suddenly a figure appeared against his closed eyelids like an afterimage. It was the boy he had seen in the kunoichi's mind, standing in the same pose he had been in before, with the same corpse oozing blood onto his carefully laced shoes. He was no longer whimpering; in fact, he was staring at the dead man with frightening indifference. His eyes were ringed with an unusual purplish-black, as if the eyelids were bruised without being swollen.

Malik attempted to speak, but all he could manage was a soft whining noise. His tongue was frozen, clenched between his teeth.

The boy looked up, and his eyes became impossibly, menacingly wide.

* * *

The noise Malik made was almost lost in the rattling of the train, but Rishid was close enough to hear it. He clutched his young master's bound hands in his free ones, taking his eyes off the kunoichi long enough to spare a worried glance at the boy's expressionless face. 

The kunoichi was sitting on the opposite side of the compartment, one hand holding a kunai at the ready in her lap and the other cupping over the Millennium Rod, which had been tucked into her sash. She had placed the giant fan at her feet, where it could be more easily reached, for good measure.

"_Why?" Rishid had choked out when the kunoichi's blow had left his master horribly limp, looking for all the world like the corpse of his father. It had been Rishid's task to dig the grave on that horrible day, and the memory of that bloody body in his arms had been enough to make him vomit. The kunoichi had watched dispassionately. _

_When he had finished, she had shrugged languidly. "I'm just following orders. It's nothing personal, I assure you. Now come." _

"_What are you going to do?" _

_At first she had not answered, focusing instead on binding Malik's wrists and ankles with the same strips of bed sheets they had used to restrain her before. Then, quietly, almost as if she pitied him, she had said, "I need you to carry him downstairs and out the back door as discreetly as possible. We will be taking the express train to Central. I have associates there who will escort the two of you back to the Wind Country." _

"_Other ninja?"_

"_Yes." _

"_Why can't you just take us back?"_

_She had hesitated, and her eyes had flicked around the room. "I have… other obligations." Then her gaze had hardened, burning into him with that familiar ferocity he had seen while she was their captive. "Now go. I would rather not carry you, but I will not hesitate to put you to sleep if you try any tricks." _

_It had not been difficult to smuggle Malik, unconscious and wrapped in Rishid's cloak to hide his bindings, onto the train. The night conductor who came to collect their tickets had glanced at the boy with an amused smile and remarked, "Asleep already, eh?" Rishid had silently pleaded with him to notice the bruise that was half-hidden by Malik's bangs, but the lighting was poor and the man was nearsighted. _

Now, still holding his master's hands in a manner that Malik never would have allowed if he had been conscious, Rishid thought of something.

"Will Ishizu be there when we get back to the Wind Country?"

The kunoichi stared at him for a long moment, as if she had forgotten he could talk during the hours they had spent in silence. "Who?"

Rishid tried to casually deflect his gaze to the scenery outside the window, but the blinds were drawn. "Nothing. No one."

An amused, almost rueful smile twitched across the kunoichi's face. "She his mother or something?"

Rishid no longer wanted to follow this avenue of conversation. "Might as well be."

* * *

The train pulled into Central an hour behind schedule, thanks to a detour caused by repair work on the express line. Over the course of that extra hour, the kunoichi had become increasingly agitated, repeatedly yanking the Millennium Rod from her sash and rolling it between the palms of her hands like clay. Rishid eyed the abandoned kunai lying beside her on the seat, but he knew that she was still on guard despite all signs to the contrary. He might be stronger, but she was certainly faster. 

An ancient intercom system crackled wearily into life. "Attention passengers, we are now approaching North Central Station. Please remain seated after the train has stopped. We have been selected for a random security sweep."

Groans leaked through the walls from the adjacent compartments. The engineer seemed to understand the collective mood of his passengers, because he made a poor attempt to sound upbeat.

"The check should take just ten minutes, and then you'll be on your way. We apologize for the further delay."

The kunoichi's eyes had narrowed, and she slid the kunai back into the pouch on her thigh. Her lips were twitching as if whatever she was thinking was very close to escaping from her mouth.

Rishid glanced at the compartment door and then back to her. "What do we do?"

Her smile was strained. "Wait for them to get to us." As if set on proving that she wasn't fazed, she tucked both hands behind her head and leaned back against the headrest for the first time during the trip.

Rishid nudged one of Malik's shoulders. "Master Malik. Master Malik, we've arrived."

Malik's lips parted, and he groaned; his eyes were moving sporadically beneath his eyelids. Rishid placed a gentle hand against the side of his master's face and tried to sound reassuring.

"Please sit up, Master Malik. We're in Central now."

The boy's eyes flicked open, and he jerked upright, making the kunoichi's hand jump to her weapons pouch. His wild violet eyes came to rest on her fierce green ones – but before anyone could make a move, the compartment door slid open to reveal a harried-looking man in an Amestris military uniform.

"All right, stand up. Let me see your baggage, all of you," he ordered, waving a handheld metal detector in front of him like a billy club.

As the three of them hesitantly got to their feet, Rishid stepped closer to Malik and yanked the sheets off his wrists; they would look suspicious.

"Hey, you!" the soldier snapped. "Stay where you are. We've got to sweep all of you before anyone's allowed off this train." Malik waited until the guard had turned to the girl and then ducked down to undo the bonds on his ankles.

"Surprising amount of security, this," remarked the kunoichi as the metal detector was passed across her shoulders.

"Yeah, well, we got a call out for two fugitives who killed one of our guys at the northeastern border." The detector paused just above her waist. "Hey, now, what's this? Take it out and hand it over."

Eyes fixed meaningfully on Rishid (she could not see Malik over the guard's shoulder), the kunoichi drew out the Millennium Rod but kept both hands clenched around the staff.

"Come now, let me see it – you'll get it right back – I've just got to check – "

Rishid shot a glance at Malik, and, to his horror, the boy was crouching, limbs tense. _Oh gods, no –_

Malik exploded forward, hurtling into the soldier, sending him flying into the kunoichi, who threw out both hands to catch herself. The Millennium Rod was on the floor for only an instant before Malik scooped it up, sparing Rishid a fleeting look as he fled. Rishid didn'thave time to think, only act – he burst into the narrow passage just in time to see Malik suddenly stop, sway, and begin to fall. Grabbing his master by the shoulders, Rishid pushed him back to his feet and propelled him down the steps and off the train. A great deal of shouting, cursing, and crashing followed them, and a kunai whizzed past their heads and embedded its tip in the platform. Rishid didn't notice the startled looks of passerby – all he knew were the uniformed men rushing to block their path and his own voice screaming, "Run, Master Malik! Gods, please! Run!"

* * *

"…So it took us about an _hour_ to get the paint out of Satsuki's hair. We ended up having to cut some of it out because it just _wouldn't_ wash out, you know? And then we realized that we had left Mei alone the whole time…" 

Over the past hour, Miho had told so many stories about so many extended relatives that Ryou was beginning to wonder how she kept all of them straight. Mr. Nosaka had interrupted her a few times to clarify things, but mostly he had watched her excited gestures and animated face with something between amusement and bewilderment.

"…And that's when we found out that the masking tape had been in the tool box all along!"

Realizing that Miho meant this to be funny, Ryou forced out a little laugh that sounded more like a cough.

Miho paused, apparently out of stories for the time being, and fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. After a minute or two of dead silence, she stood up, announced that she needed a trip to the lavatory, and departed.

As soon as she had shut the compartment door, Mr. Nosaka leaned towards Ryou. "Thanks for putting up with her. You didn't have to come sit with us, you know."

"Well, I sort of… did," Ryou told him, and immediately hated himself for saying it. Miho had latched onto his arm as soon as they both had their tickets and had practically dragged him onto the train and into the compartment she would be sharing with her father.

Mr. Nosaka seemed to know what he meant, because the corners of his eyes crinkled in a small smile. "Well, I'm grateful. You know, I think the only reason she wanted to come to Central was to spend more time with you."

The only thing that kept Ryou from stammering out a false protest was the spirit's sudden surge of anger, which produced an uncomfortable metallic taste in the back of Ryou's throat. His ghostly counterpart had grown steadily more frustrated as the evening wore on, to the point that Ryou, as a precautionary measure, had tuned Miho out and repeatedly reminded the spirit that their train was making good time.

_We are almost in Central, aren't we, host? Because if we have to spend another half an hour with this moronic excuse for a businessman and his scatterbrained daughter, I'll – _

Two things interrupted him at once: Miho reentering the compartment and the engineer's voice crackling over the intercom.

"Attention, passengers. We are now arriving at North Central Station. Please collect all personal belongings. Do not exit the train until it has come to a complete stop. Thank you for riding North Amestrian Railroads, and we hope to see you again soon. Have a good day."

Ryou peeked through the blinds over the compartment's small window and discovered that sometime during Miho's last story they had left the suburbs behind and were gliding between skyscrapers as smoothly as a skater on ice. Something mechanical beneath the floorboards hissed as the train began to lose speed.

"So where are you staying?" Miho asked, dragging her suitcase out from under the seat. "Daddy's booked us a room at the Mideastern Hotel."

Ryou hadn't given any thought to accommodations. "Ah, er, well…"

The train lurched to an abrupt stop; Miho stumbled and fell forward onto Ryou's lap, prompting another furious tirade from the spirit. Feeling his face burn, Ryou pushed her off a little harder than he had intended to.

"Sorry, Ryou. I – "

The rest of her apology was lost in the din that erupted as passengers banged open compartment doors and dragged luggage up the corridors, talking, laughing, and shouting. Through the voices, Ryou thought he heard the engineer come over the intercom again, but he could only make out a few scattered words.

"We've received word that… appears to be some kind of… remain… just a few minutes… police will…"

No one else seemed to be paying attention, including Miho and her father, who were both standing at the door with their suitcases, looking for a chance to join the crowd in the hallway. Ryou got to his feet and let them clear a path for him, hugging his chest as if he could restrain the spirit that way.

As he climbed down the steps to the platform, he clearly heard the engineer shout through the intercom, "Once again, please remain in your seats until the police have cleared the disturbance and given us the okay."

Several porters were rushing towards the train and closing doors to keep the passengers who hadn't disembarked from doing so. Suddenly uneasy, Ryou scanned the platform for anything amiss.

"Do you want anything from the vending machine, Ryou?" Miho's voice was so close to his ear that it made him jump.

"Oh, I, uh… no thanks. Did you hear –"

"They're coming this way! Stop 'em!"

Suddenly the crowd in front of the two teenagers swelled with panic, people dashing in every direction and even getting knocked down in the chaos. Ryou caught a glimpse of bright blue uniforms.

"Miho, look out! Soldiers –"

A man in a long coat ran by, knocking Ryou to the floor with his briefcase. For a brief second he was afraid he would be trampled, but Miho grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his feet.

"Thank you," he gasped, clutching at his chest; his pendant had flared in response to his temporary endangerment. In the rush of people, Mr. Nosaka was nowhere to be seen. "Where's your dad?"

"I don't know!"

Taking Miho's hand in his so he wouldn't lose her, Ryou turned around – and came face-to-face with the boy from the restaurant the night before.

He was clutching a golden scepter to his chest like a child cradling a favorite toy, and the man with the tattooed face was behind him, hands clenched protectively on the boy's shoulders. An ugly bruise spread across part of the boy's forehead, like a stain.

For a second he looked dazed, but the shouts of the military men who were racing towards them seemed to jar him out of his trance. Lunging forward, he pried Miho from Ryou's grasp and wrapped an arm around her waist, putting her between himself and the soldiers. His free hand found the head of the scepter and pulled; the handle came away, exposing a knife that he held to Miho's throat.

The crowd had cleared enough for Ryou to have a clear view of the soldiers, who froze at the sight of the knife, and a young woman with a boxy object on her back and throwing stars in her hands, who did not. One of her weapons grazed the boy's shoulder, and he flinched.

"Put those things down," he ordered, "or I'll kill this girl."

The woman narrowed her eyes and slowly lowered her hands, but she didn't loosen her grip on any of her arsenal.

"I mean it," the boy snarled, applying just enough pressure to draw a single drop of blood. The tattooed man was watching him helplessly. Miho's eyes were on Ryou; heavy sobs were beginning to shake through her.

_Host –,_ the spirit warned in an alarmed hiss.

But Ryou's hands had already struck first each other and then the platform. Wood splintered as the alchemy went to work, bringing concrete up from the underbelly of the platform, shaping it into a hand that burst up and grabbed the other boy's arm. His shock allowed Miho to break free and the young woman to throw a kunai knife that met its target. The boy's scream galvanized the tattooed man, who seized the concrete hand as if he meant to pry its fingers off his master's arm. Then the soldiers were upon them: four rushed the tattooed man, one took the scepter-knife away from the boy, who had slumped forward, bleeding, and two more seized the arms of the young woman, who fought back with unsurprising tenacity.

Ryou sank to the ground, feeling suddenly dizzy. Through the commotion he could see that yet another soldier had put his arm comfortingly around Miho's shoulders and was leading her away from the scene. She glanced back at Ryou, and he started to get to his feet to follow them, but a firm hand gripped his arm.

"Son, I need you to undo whatever you did back there."

Ryou looked from the officer's face to the concrete hand, which was still holding the injured boy in place. "Oh… yeah… right…"

He clapped his hands wearily and pressed his palms to the concrete, which slid back into place, mending the floor. The officer's heavy hand descended on his shoulder again.

"Now I need you to come with me, son."

Two police cars had pulled up to the platform, and several soldiers were in the process of loading the unconscious boy and the tattooed man, now handcuffed, into the back seat of one of them. The door of the other car was open and waiting, and the officer nudged Ryou towards it.

"Wait – what're you – "

He glanced up at the officer's face, which wore an unreadable expression.

"You're under arrest."

* * *

**Notes, Homages, and General Ramblings:**

The word "Fuhrer" technically needs an accent over the "u" - Fanfiction's formatting tends to mess with unusual characters, and I don't know enough about code to make sure that doesn't happen, so I decided to leave it out.

Thanks for sticking with me. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.

**In the next chapter:** Naruto thinks back on the past three years, and Ryou has a strange encounter with a certain blue-eyed businessman...


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